TITLE: Toughing It Out
AUTHOR: Tiffany Park
EMAIL: anderson7836@comcast.net
STATUS: Complete
CATEGORY: Challenge Response
SPOILERS: One teensy, tiny one for "Prisoners." Can you spot it?
SEASON: Season Two, a little before the episode "Prisoners"
PAIRINGS: None
RATING: PG-13
CONTENT WARNINGS: Language
SUMMARY: Ordinary terrestrial lifeforms can be just as big a problem as their alien counterparts. Makepeace List Challenge Response: Why was Major Warren in charge of SG-3 during the episode "Prisoners," and where was Colonel Makepeace?
ARCHIVE: Please ask
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Okay, since I made the challenge, it's only fair that I do it, too. So, in the spirit of hammering something short out quickly without sweating too much over perfection, here it is. (Of course, my idea of short is anything under 5000 words, and "quickly" = "about a week" rather than a few hours. Oh, well.) This was a quickie, so please be kind.

Makepeace's nose tingled.

He knew that feeling. A sneeze was imminent unless he did something to stop it. He flared his nostrils a few times. The itch receded but didn't disappear completely. He scratched his nose with the safe end of his pen, wondering what might be floating around in the briefing room's air. Maybe, he thought with a touch of irreverence, he was just allergic to Jack O'Neill, who was sitting across from him--slouching, really--and projecting a bored air. Ranged around the table were the other SG team leaders, with General Hammond presiding at the head.

His nose back under control, Makepeace returned his attention to Hammond and the chart he was explaining. Every month the general met with all the team leaders to go over the preliminary mission schedule and get input about issues and potential problems. It was a nice idea in theory, but in reality the schedule was usually subject to last minute changes due to the unique nature of the activities involved. Even low profile missions that looked like milk runs had a frequent and unfortunate tendency to generate the kind of fan-ejected shit that spattered everyone within shouting distance.

The general had finished with SG-4's schedule and was just beginning SG-5's when Makepeace's nose itched again, and nothing on Earth could have stopped the enormous sneeze that escaped him. He sneezed twice more, paused for a breathless moment, then his nose let loose another sneeze just for kicks. All of them were loud.

Hammond stopped talking and frowned at him. In fact, everyone in the room was looking at him.

"Gesundheit," said Stan Kovacek, with raised eyebrows.

"Thanks," Makepeace muttered. He scratched his nose and sniffled. Since it was impossible to look dignified under the circumstances, he settled for alert and attentive, and fixed his gaze on Hammond.

The general maintained a poker face and went on with the meeting. SG-5's CO, Lieutenant Colonel Tanaka, raised a point about training conflicts. Makepeace's nose started tingling again. Surreptitiously, he scratched it.

Less than two minutes later Makepeace sneezed again. Then again. And again. He sniffed a couple times, trying to get the inconvenient itch out of his nose. He was aware that Hammond had broken off and was staring at him, but there was nothing he could do about his inconvenient sneezing fit.

O'Neill smirked. "You taking lessons from Daniel?"

"Must be something in the air," Makepeace muttered, irked by the comparison to the allergy-afflicted archeologist.

"Nobody else is having any problems," O'Neill pointed out cheerfully. Makepeace glared at him and sniffled.

Ferretti rifled through his pockets and came up with an old Kleenex. Repressing a grimace, Makepeace took it. It was crumpled but looked clean, so he used it to wipe his nose.

Hammond scowled at them. "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

Ferretti said, "No, sir, no problem."

"Everything's just great, General," O'Neill added, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach. He was smiling.

Makepeace crushed the Kleenex in one fist.

"Are you all right, Colonel Makepeace?" Hammond asked.

Makepeace coughed then cleared his throat, which felt a little scratchy. "Yes, sir."

"All right, then." Hammond turned back to the schedule. "Major Olsen is on leave, so in the interim I've assigned Major Castleman as temporary CO of SG-7--"

Makepeace let out another sneeze. He had a few seconds' reprieve, then four more sneezes shook him, one after another in quick succession. He used the Kleenex to blow his nose as quietly as he could manage.

O'Neill snickered a little too loudly.

"That will be enough, Colonel," Hammond ordered with ill-concealed impatience.

Makepeace looked up, but the general's evil eye was fixed on O'Neill.

"Yes, sir," O'Neill said lightly.

General Hammond sighed and continued going over the schedule.

The next morning hit Makepeace like the proverbial ton of bricks.

His alarm clock jolted him out of a deeper than usual sleep right at 0500. That was weird. Normally, he woke up on his own before the alarm went off. This time he could barely get his eyes open.

To put it bluntly, he felt like crap. His head throbbed abominably. At some point while he was asleep, his nose had stuffed up. He figured he had probably spent a good portion of the night breathing through his mouth, which accounted for the dry, sore throat that made swallowing an act of torture.

The alarm clock continued its shrill beeping. Somehow, he managed to sit up. Damned if every bone in his body didn't ache. He was freezing, too. With a groan, he slapped the clock to shut off the infernal noise and flopped back down.

That small amount of movement provoked a coughing fit. When it had passed, he was forced to admit he had picked up a cold. No sense lying to himself about it, after all.

Well, no one died from a cold, he told himself, although this cold seemed a lot worse than was usual for him. He really didn't want to get moving and tackle the day. In fact, he didn't want to get out of his cozy, warm bed at all. He could barely face the mere idea of being upright, let alone thinking or doing anything half productive.

"Wimp," he muttered. "You must be getting old." Through sheer force of will he sat up again, swung his legs over the side of his bed, and stood up.

Immediately, he felt woozy, and his headache ratcheted up a few notches. He staggered to the bathroom, took a Sudafed and a couple of aspirin, then went about his normal morning activities.

After he had showered he still didn't feel any better. That was something of a surprise--usually a steaming hot shower helped when he had a cold. At least he didn't feel as chilled anymore. However, the minor effort involved in getting dressed was utterly exhausting, and the chills came back fast enough. The crappy way he felt, food wasn't even a consideration, so he downed two cups of coffee and called it good.

He was still stuffy and coughing, too, and the damned headache just wouldn't go away. The Sudafed obviously wasn't strong enough. He popped another one before heading out the door.

The drive up to the Mountain was sheer hell. The Sudafed Makepeace had taken was supposedly the non-drowsy formula, but for some reason he was sleepy and woozy and had trouble focusing.

The coughing didn't help matters, either.

Nonetheless, he made it to the parking lot without incident. The walk to the elevators seemed much longer than normal, and he was relieved to lean against the wall as the elevator carried him down to the SGC. He felt a twinge of disappointment when the ride ended and the doors slid open, since now he'd have to negotiate the maze of corridors to his office.

At least he only had paperwork to do this morning. For once, he was actually looking forward to sitting on his butt, drinking coffee, and gazing blankly at triplicate forms.

He dragged himself to his office and gratefully collapsed into a chair. It was going to be a very long day.

The next day he felt even worse, in spite of the fact that he'd been downing Sudafed and aspirin like candy, and slurping coffee like soda-pop. Not that any of the drugs were doing all that much for his symptoms. Probably, Makepeace thought as he rested his head on his desk, he should just bag it and take some sick time. Then he told himself to stop being such a damn pussy. He managed to tough out the rest of the day, which fortunately was uneventful.

However, he couldn't face the long drive home, so he found himself a bunk and spent the night on base. He had cause to regret that decision. The mattress was hard, thin, and generally uncomfortable, and he was up half the night coughing and sniffling, and wishing for his own bed most of the time before he finally fell asleep.

In the morning, he was barely able to haul himself out of the bunk.

He dry-swallowed more of the worthless drugs, then went to the locker room and hit the showers.

He leaned forward, braced his arms against the tiled wall, and let the spray beat on his tired body. The base was freezing this morning, and chills raced through him so hard he shivered. He cranked up the hot water.

Everything seemed worse today. He was so congested he was talking funny, unable to pronouce m's, n's, t's, and th's correctly. The headache just wouldn't go away. Right now it wasn't too bad, although he figured that would change as the day wore on. His chest and throat hurt from the almost constant coughing, and sneezes struck at the most inopportune moments. He felt so fatigued that just standing under the shower sapped his strength.

Somehow, he found the energy to get dressed. Today was going to be hell on wheels. He had a meeting with General Hammond at 0930, and then SG-3 was scheduled for some range time after lunch. Normally shooting practice was a joy, but today the thought of driving all the way out to the rifle range then listening to nonstop gunshots for a couple of hours--even with ear protectors muting the percussive noise--was enough to make him want to crawl into a hole somewhere and die.

As tempting as that idea was, he wasn't about to give in to the common cold. No way was he letting some stupid, common, garden variety germ knock him out. Over the last few days the whole thing had become personal. The cold was now a battle to be fought, a challenge to be overcome, a Man Versus Rhinovirus kind of thing.

He knew it was idiotic, but his pride was at stake. It wasn't easy being the senior Marine on an Air Force base. He had a reputation to maintain.

Out of necessity, he went to the chow hall to force down some food. Even though he had no appetite, he knew better than to starve himself. His body would fight off the bug sooner if he kept up his strength.

Next to the thrill of going off-world, the best thing about serving on an Air Force base was the grub. The boys in the blue suits rarely deprived themselves and typically had the best food and accommodations of all the armed services.

He looked at the offerings and almost heaved. You knew you were in sorry shape when Cream of Wheat looked better than eggs, sausage, and hash browns.

How much Cream of Wheat had he eaten over the last few days, anyway? You'd think he'd be sick of it by now, but mush and soup had been his primary food groups lately. Add in Sudafed, aspirin, and caffeine, and you had a pathetic diet, but at least it kept him functioning.

He ate most of his Cream of Wheat, then pushed the tray away and sipped a cup of coffee to ward off the morning chill. Damn underground base. It was a miracle the place wasn't constantly damp.

A coughing fit struck at exactly that moment. Coffee slopped over the rim of the cup, but fortunately none landed in his lap. Makepeace felt his eyes watering. That one had hurt. Felt like he'd almost hacked up a lung.

"You okay, sir?" A concerned airman stood before his table.

Makepeace wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "I'm fine, Sergeant." An enormous sneeze spoiled the effect of the leave-me-alone glare he directed at the busybody.

"Yes, sir." Sneeze or no, the airman had the sense to go away and mind his own business.

Makepeace looked around and noticed that there appeared to be an unofficial quarantine zone around his table. People were starting to figure out that he was sick, rather than just surlier than usual. Yesterday, Johnson had told him he looked pale. The expression on the lieutenant's face as he said it informed Makepeace that "pale" meant: "You look like you're about to drop dead." A snarly reply had only made Johnson shrug and look disapproving, but he'd backed off. Rank had a few privileges, although it wouldn't work on everyone. Makepeace had been careful to avoid O'Neill, who would have entirely too much fun at his expense. Fortunately, that particular nemesis was heading off-world soon.

No one else had had the nerve to comment. Until now. Apparently he was starting to make people nervous. They were probably afraid they'd get infected or something. Wimps.

Fine. He'd go hide in his office. He liked his office. It was nice and quiet there. He got up, and after a fresh wave of dizziness passed, disposed of his tray and headed out the door.

The simple act of walking down the corridor was hideous. Even such slight exercise induced paroxysms of coughing. He paused, leaning against a wall, until the fit passed. He was even worse off today than yesterday. It had been three days now. Shouldn't he be getting better? He finally began to wonder if the bug he'd picked up wasn't more than a simple cold.

Shit.

SG-3 was scheduled to go on a recon mission to P2A-509 in five days. He couldn't afford to be less than one-hundred percent, and this bug was showing no signs of going away anytime soon. Reluctantly, he concluded that a visit to Doctor Fraiser was in order.

He pushed away from the wall and did an about face. Oooh, big mistake, he thought as the world slowly reeled around him. That wall wasn't a half bad idea. He leaned his back against it, panting and sweating.

A couple of passing airmen paused. "Are you all right, sir?" one of them asked.

Makepeace shook his head and tried to focus on them. His headache came back with a vengeance. He drew a breath to try to reply, but ended up coughing instead, leaning heavily against the cool concrete.

"Sir, maybe you'd better go to the infirmary," said the other airman. The two men took his arms to help support him.

The infirmary. Good idea. He'd been heading there, anyway. Makepeace nodded and took a shaky step forward. His vision grayed and narrowed down to a tunnel. The corridor and the two airmen started spinning, then everything went black.

When Makepeace next opened his eyes, he was horizontal, looking up at a gray concrete ceiling with fluorescent lighting. Further investigation revealed that he was lying on an exam table in the infirmary.

Doctor Fraiser's face came into view. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Colonel."

He blinked, perplexed. "What happened? How'd I get here?"

"Chang and Melrose brought you in a few minutes ago. They said you fainted in the hall."

"I did not faint," he proclaimed indignantly as he struggled to a sitting position. Even that simple act made him feel a little woozy.

"No?"

"Fainting's for wussies. Marines do not faint. It's against the rules."

"Uh, huh." Her lips twitched ever so slightly. "So, can you tell me what brought on this non-faint?"

He scowled. "I got dizzy."

Her brows rose. "Dizzy?"

"I have a cold."

"You do sound congested," she said neutrally as she got out her stethoscope. Makepeace eyed the instrument with disfavor. In his experience, that thing was always ice cold.

"Can you tell me about your cold?" Fraiser asked in a professional tone of voice. She pulled open his shirt.

He caught his breath when the frigid stethoscope touched his bare skin. Did all doctors keep that thing in the freezer? Stoically, he related his symptoms and self-treatment, interspersed with the occasional cough. Fraiser hemmed and hawed and nodded encouragingly and asked questions, all the while pressing that damned stethoscope all over his chest, then staring down his throat, sticking a thermometer in his mouth, feeling around his neck and jaw with her hands, and performing other annoying doctorly activities. She finished by checking the thermometer.

"Well, Colonel, I hate to tell you this, but you don't have a cold."

He frowned worriedly. "Then what's wrong with me?"

"You have the flu."

"The flu?"

"Uh huh. Pretty bad case, too. You've got a fever, you're dehydrated, and from the sound of your lungs, I'd say you're flirting with pneumonia. How long have you been walking around like this?" She sounded disapproving.

Under her intense scrutiny he could only sigh and come clean. "Three days. Four, if you count the day I was sneezing all the time."

Her disapproval intensified. "Well, you've certainly managed to mess yourself up. If you had stayed in bed where you belonged, it would probably never have gotten this bad. And I expect to see a lot more cases, since you've been spreading it around the base all week."

He winced. "So what now?"

She wrote something down on her clipboard. "Now, Colonel, we're going to take some X-rays to confirm the pneumonia. Then we're going to find you a bed, replace those fluids and maybe put you on a course of antibiotics."

"You going to keep me in the infirmary? How long?"

She shrugged. "Depends on how well you respond to treatment. Two days, minimum, then I'll send you home for a week's bed rest."

"But I've got a mission coming up."

"You have got to be kidding, Colonel. You can barely sit upright."

"Look, can't you just give me a pill or something?"

She shook her head. "You're grounded, Colonel. Accept the inevitable, and next year don't skip that flu shot."

Makepeace scowled at her and wiped his nose with the back of his arm. "I hate this," he grumbled.

"Offhand, I can't think of anyone who likes it," Fraiser said with a notable lack of sympathy, although she did hand him a tissue. She scribbled on her clipboard again, then called for a nurse.

So much for bedside manner. His opinion of military doctors, never high to begin with, went down another notch. Sometimes he wondered if she didn't enjoy her job just a little too much.

On the bright side, at least he wouldn't have to suffer through shooting practice today.

November, 2002

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