Author's Notes: This is the first SG-1 fic I've posted. This fic was born out of a desire to see more interaction with Cam and Jack, a wish I'm certain I will never see happen in any future movie(s). Anyways, I tried to get it beta'ed but my beta never got back to me after several months and an inquiry so I've decided to post as is. I hope you like it! Please leave a review and let me know. Thanks!

The Coffin

"Mitchell!"

An uncomfortable pause.

"Sir?"

"You stay awake. That's an order!"

...

"Yes, sir."

They lay in dimly lit, small space. The air felt thin, cold. General Jack O'Neill could smell the wood that enclosed them. A small lantern sat between their heads, but the light it gave illuminated little. Still, O'Neill could see the man next to him and that was something.

Red soaked Colonel Cameron Mitchell's face. His eyes struggled to remain open. Hopefully now he'd try harder--the man hated to disobey orders. Usually.

O'Neill pushed on the unfinished wood above him, less than four inches from his face--enough to give anyone claustrophobia, but stopped as his injuries once more throbbed from the exertion. He'd already checked the sides for some kind of lever or button, not out of expectation of finding one but peace of mind in knowing for sure one wasn't there. Mitchell hadn't found one, either.

"They'll find us, sir," the colonel said, his voice weak and his words slurred.

General O'Neill looked into the younger man's unfocused eyes with a bit of a frown. Leave it to Mitchell to be optimistic in times like this. O'Neill tried to recall whether any of the team had even made it to the gate, but he didn't know what happened to them--if they were safe, captured, or dead. If they hadn't gotten back to Earth, rescue wouldn't come until the SGC realized something was wrong. According to O'Neill's watch, the team wasn't due for a check in for two and a half more hours. "They'd better, Mitchell. This stopped being funny.... Oh, hell, this was never funny."

"No, Sir."

The general stared into the darkness in front of him. Was this apparent box they were in designed for slow torture? Perhaps they had been placed into a coffin, a coffin built for two. He'd certainly seen stranger things.

A glance back over to the younger man and O'Neill saw the colonel's eyes had closed. He elbowed Mitchell in the side, harder than perhaps was necessary, but it gave Mitchell the proper jarring. He groaned painfully, confirming O'Neill's suspicion that Mitchell had more injuries than he could see.

"Do not make me repeat myself, Colonel. It makes me... cranky. And I'm already cranky."

"Sorry, Sir." Mitchell struggled to get the words out. "Is jus... tired...trying...can't..."

"You fall asleep, you will die," O'Neill snapped. "I don't care what it takes--stay awake!"

Somehow Mitchell managed to keep his eyes open, perhaps out of fear of disobeying a superior officer. O'Neill, though relieved, wondered how long it would last.

Here we go, O'Neill thought as the lightheadedness began. Oxygen was officially at a dangerously low level. Unless rescue came soon, they'd suffocate. O'Neill had been down this road before and had zero desire to experience it again. Soon he wouldn't be able to keep his own wits about him, and had no hope of keeping the colonel awake. He wanted to put out the light to the lantern to help preserve oxygen, but it was encased in glass with no discernible switch. Even if this wasn't an actual coffin, O'Neill realized it was about to become one.

He turned his head in Mitchell's direction. The last of the light lit up the side of the other man's face. The colonel was unconscious, his head tilted slightly away from the general. O'Neill cursed. However much oxygen was left, he doubted Mitchell would live that long. If O'Neill survived, he didn't want it to be because a man under his command died.

He didn't know Mitchell as well as the rest of the team did, but had spent enough time with him to consider him a friend. He knew Mitchell was as strong as a man came. No one thought he'd survive the crash of his F-302 in Antarctica, and when he had, no one thought he'd ever walk again, let alone serve again in the Air Force with such physical capability. Few people had the kind of strength the colonel possessed--it was one of the reasons O'Neill had favored him for SG-1. Unfortunately, the general also knew that sometimes strength wasn't enough when the injuries were grave enough. Some things even the strongest man can't come back from.

That he lay helplessly next to a dying friend angered him, but he couldn't afford to yell. He'd have to breathe as shallowly as possible, give Carter as much time as possible to find them. He knew she'd find them; so long as she was alive, she'd put all her energy into rescuing them.

As much as he'd missed gate travel, he had never once missed being in a situation like this. Sure, he'd gotten used to danger after serving in the Air Force for the majority of his life, after leading SG-1 for seven years, but he would never miss wondering if these were his last moments, or watching his teammates, his closest friends, get into trouble time after time. Every SG team had lost members; some SG teams had been wiped out entirely. In that respect, SG-1 had been the luckiest. Or maybe it really hadn't had anything to do with luck.

Determined not to look at his watch, O'Neill tried not to think about time, but soon it was all he could think about. How long had Mitchell been unconscious? How long ago had they been thrown in here, wherever here was? How much time did he have until the oxygen ran out? How much time had passed since the last time he'd allowed himself a look at his wrist? Eventually this led to even worse questions. Was Colonel Mitchell even still breathing? Despite his panic at the thought, O'Neill couldn't make himself look. He didn't want to know if Mitchell had died next to him. He didn't have space enough, or oxygen enough, to give the man CPR. If Mitchell was no longer breathing, there was nothing O'Neill could do about it. Nothing. So he didn't let himself look.

After that he forgot. Forgot where he was, forgot that someone was lying next to him, forgot that he was hungry. He knew his head felt strangely light, and that he was tired, and that the world was slowly dimming. It didn't occur to him to question why these things were happening- he forgot to be skeptical. He forgot that giving in to sleep would kill him. He just knew that letting go felt good.

Jack O'Neill woke up on the floor. An mask had been placed over his face. He inhaled the pure oxygen as deeply as he could. His head pounded viciously. Unfamiliar faces peered down at him. He looked back in confusion. To his right, he sensed a lot of motion and panic.

"General O'Neill, you're on board the Daedalus," a woman kneeling next to him said. He blinked at her. "Let's get you into a bed. Nurse!"

As several hands reached down to lift him, something else drew O'Neill's attention. When he realized what he was seeing, he tried to sit up, struggling against the people trying to remove him; they struggled back. "General, you're injured, you need medical attention."

"Let him stay for a minute." Somewhere nearby, Carter's voice. It sounded shaky and low-she was near tears. Even so, her authority held the others back, and O'Neill propped himself against his elbow, not strong enough to sit up entirely.

Just a few inches away, several people had crowded around Colonel Mitchell. One doctor performed CPR, another chest compressions. The room fell into tense silence as everyone watched.

"We're going to have to tube him!"

"Get me a defibrillator, now!"

O'Neill watched, ignoring the pains of his own body, as the medical team tore open Mitchell's shirt, placed the paddles on his chest and shocked him. He cringed as Mitchell's torso arched up.

"I got a pulse, let's move him."

Both injured officers were quickly moved onto the nearby beds. From his peripheral view, he could see Daniel and Teal'c standing by the wall, watching silently, faces grim. Doctors and nurses surrounded him, probing his injuries, connecting him to IVs and machines. He stole a glance at the next bed, but he couldn't see anything.

"General, you're okay. You can go to sleep now if you want to. It's all right."

He didn't want to go to sleep. He wanted to know if Mitchell would pull through, to look around for his friends, to see and talk to them. Sleep came anyway.

When he woke up again, he felt quite comfortable. The wound in his side didn't bother him, his head felt normal and he could breathe regularly. A good way to wake up, he decided. He opened his eyes and saw SG-1, still his team, taking up the chairs that were scattered around the room. Carter slept in the chair between his bed and Mitchell's. Vala had sprawled herself out in the chair by the door; Teal'c sat by the window and Daniel slept with his head on the table in front of him.

In the bed next to him, Colonel Mitchell's eyes were open, blinking. In a few minutes, the team would realize they were both awake and start their hovering. For now, O'Neill wanted to hold them off.

"Mitchell," he whispered, hoping not to wake Carter.

"Sir?"

"You fell asleep!"

Mitchell actually looked ashamed. "Sorry, sir."

"It's all right, you couldn't help it. I understand. Good job hanging in there."

"You, too, sir."

The End