REGRETS, I'VE HAD A FEW

by Linda Chapple

Time is relative; lunchtime doubly so.

The quote came from nowhere and if he hadn't been in so much pain and scared out of his life, Tim O'Neill would have laughed. The way his mind chose to work at times was frightening. When you're trapped in a communications outpost which had been partiall y swallowed by a sea-quake, the last thing you expected was to remember silly quotes you used to toss around with mock profundity. Still, he supposed it beat curling up into a little ball and screaming his lungs out and using up what was left of the oxygen.

Sighing a little, Tim attempted to shift position and gritted his teeth against the blast of pain which immediately surged up from his leg, nausea churning his stomach and making him gasp despite his resolve to keep breathing evenly and slowly. This would teach him to volunteer for an assignment. Krieg was obviously right when he claimed that volunteering was against the laws of the universe, especially when the person doing the volunteering had the same knack for attracting trouble that O'Neill had. If it hadn't been for that stupid quarrel he'd had with Ortiz, Tim would probably have ignored the delicate hint which Bridger had sent his way, but he'd still been furious with the Cuban for setting him up on a date with that piranha of a nurse and he'd grabbed at the chance to get off the boat before he went back for a rematch and said something he'd regret even more than he already did.

Using some of the techniques he'd learned along with his martial arts, Tim managed to get the pain back under control and leaned against the smashed console which had ironically saved his life while also injuring him. His leg was definitely broken where the edge of the console had come down on it, but having the console leaning across him had prevented the steel girder which had torn loose from the roof from coming down and spearing him through the chest. Another tremor had shifted the console enough that it was no longer resting against his leg, but it was just as well that he had nowhere to go, since he would never h ave been able to slide around the narrow gap which now existed between the console, the bulkhead and himself.

I wish I hadn't quarrelled with him.

O'Neill took off his glasses and rubbed at his burning eyes. He tried to tell himself that they burned from a combination of the light smoke in the air and the pain he was in, but he knew better. In all the ways that counted, Miguel was closer to him than his family and Tim could imagine what Ortiz would think when he realised that his last words to Tim had been angry, cutting ones. It was rare for the two of them to argue and lose themselves in the fury; Miguel might be marginally better at holding a grudge than the fledgling empath Tim was, but he was never proof against Tim's diffident apologies

Only this time Tim had left before he'd cooled down enough to even begin to consider apologising and now there would be no chance for Miguel to hear the words.

The burning in his eyes was worse and Tim scrubbed his face angrily, despising himself for the weakness of tears. This was so stupid! seaQuest was still within communications range and if he wasn't trapped Tim would probably have been able to cobble together some kind of signal which would alert them to the fact that something was wrong. The original plan had been that the boat would continue on to pick up some scientists and O'Neill would finish up this job and join them a day or so later. Krieg had seen him off with a worried look, a demand to know if it was safe to approach Ortiz while O'Neill was off the boat and a teasing remark about the 'packed lunch, dinner and supper' which Lorenzo had managed to cram into the cool box she had sent along with him.

"I should have known better than to believe that everything would go according to plan."

His voice sounded odd, O'Neill reflected. His throat was sore, as well. Maybe he'd breathed in more smoke than he'd originally thought. When the fire had started, he thought his last moment had come, but to his amazement the automatic fire-system had still fu n ctioned and the flames had been put out almost immediately, although not before they had generated enough smoke to make the air harsh to breath. It was seeing the way the smoke hung in the air which told Tim that the air-recycling system had shut down an d for a moment it hadn't been the smoke which had made it difficult to breath. Sheer terror and the knowledge that he was going to die had done the job instead.

"I don't want to die," he whispered. As soon as the words left his mouth, he snorted, momentarily despising himself. "Like anyone in the same situation would? Get a grip, O'Neill!"

Only why the hell should he? He was on his own. There was no-one to see his weakness and if he wanted to lose it, Tim figured he was entitled to do so. This wasn' t a training exercise, where he was marked for performance under pressure and where, no matter how well it was set up, you always knew at the back of your mind that you weren't going to die. Most importantly of all, he didn't have Miguel around, the Cuba n calmly assuming that O'Neill would be equal to anything the universe chose to throw at them. Quite how Ortiz had gotten the impression that O'Neill was both smart and brave was a total mystery to the American, but he'd seen Miguel go for people who dare d to say anything to contrary.

"I'm certainly letting you down now, Miguel. I'm so scared I can't even think straight."

Not that the fear was making it difficult to think. The opposite was true, with his thoughts scattering all over the place, flicking from memory to memory like they were in a race against time. Tim had heard all about your life flashing before your eyes as you were dying, but he'd always figured that it was a last minute thing, just before you breathed your last. Maybe that was how i t worked for other people, but as always O'Neill couldn't get it right and he found himself working his way through the years of his life, mentally ticking off his mistakes and trying to hold on to the good memories. At first they came sparingly. His par ents had never exactly been the nurturing kind and the nomadic lifestyle created by his father's career with the Army and later on in politics had taught the growing child the folly of forming deep attachments with the people employed to care for him. A c hildhood spent in nearly a dozen different countries and being taught by a succession of private tutors had left him totally unprepared for American university. Ignorance of all the little social tricks coupled with a shy nature and a brilliant mind had a lienated him from his peers and it had been as much desperation as actual desire which had prompted him to join the Navy. He'd been both exhilarated and terrified at defying his father's plans for his future, but at the same time he'd figured he would be safe in an environment where regulations would govern every aspect of his life, keeping him safe from the embarrassing gaffes he had constantly suffered at university.

And then he had met Miguel Ortiz.

Tim felt the tension start to leach out of him as he recalled that first meeting. Sent to Annapolis as part of an exchange programme which was politically motivated, Miguel had been eager to learn and deeply suspicious of his fellow students. Pure chance had thrown him in with Tim and O'Neill had been st artled to find that he had more in common with the belligerent Cuban than he did with his fellow countrymen. What had originally been an alliance based on expedience had become a genuine friendship.

Now the good memories were beginning to come thick and f ast. Finding out the extent of Tim's alienation from his parents, Miguel had conspired to take him back home to Cuba, where his own family had taken one look at Tim and smoothly swept him into their midst. There had been times in the past when Tim had a ctually found himself thinking of Elena and Tomas Ortiz as his parents, the instinct to turn to them far stronger than anything he had ever felt for his blood parents.

Serina.... Despite the fact that he was alone, Tim could still feel the blush that hea ted his cheeks when he thought of Miguel's nineteen year old sister and the seemingly indestructible crush she had had on him since she had been ten. Alone and face to face with his own mortality, Tim could admit that he found it incredibly satisfying th a t someone as beautiful, spirited and intelligent as Serina Ortiz apparently thought he was both sexy and desirable. It had been getting more and more difficult to think of her as Miguel's 'kid' sister as the years had gone by and she had grown ever lovel ier. The things she did to his libido....

"Just as well I'm not going to be around, eh, Miguel?" Tim mused sadly. "I can just imagine the screaming you would have done if I'd ever slipped up and let her catch me for real."

Although he sometimes wondered just how much of Miguel's screaming on the subject was genuine and how much was a simple knee-jerk reaction.

He'd missed Miguel when they'd parted after graduation. Ortiz had gone back to Cuba and Tim had been inducted into the ranks of the NAC Navy and discovered that it sucked. His skill with diplomacy had been learned in self-defence but he hadn't realised just how much of his job was going to be mind-numbingly routine. Surviving a subsmash had left him with a nasty hole in his memory which had bot hered him and a lingering case of mild claustrophobia which could still ambush him at times. Boredom had prompted him to apply for a post on the new super-sub, seaQuest, when she had been launched and the sheer delight at finding that Ortiz was also on the crew had almost compensated for the fact that it hadn't taken him long to realise that their commanding officer was a closet lunatic.

Still, that phase of seaQuest's existence hadn't lasted long and Tim had been a part of the moment where the world had t aken a long, panicked look into the abyss and had very sensibly decided that it didn't want to go there, thank you very much. The UEO had come into existence and Nathan Bridger had come to take possession of his brainchild. No matter how bad things had gotten after that, Tim had never let go of his belief that he was now part of something great and good. seaQuest had originally been nicknamed 'Bridger's Folly', but after her first year that had become 'Bridger's Grail' and Tim didn't think he was the only one who didn't entertain the belief that he was part of the new Camelot. A Knight of the Round Bridge?

His laugh caught on a cough and he grimaced as the feeling of pressure in his chest increased. A broken leg would be enough for most people, especially when coupled with the threat of asphyxiation, but not him, oh no. It didn't hurt enough for him to have cracked or broken ribs, but something was definitely wrong. Tim prodded at his chest experimentally, wincing as he found all kinds of bruises, then stopped as he realised what he was doing.

"Sheesh, you don't have enough problems that you try and find some more?" he chided himself. "Miguel must be right about those lemming genes."

Great. He was back in the present and remembering that stupid quarrel. He'd been so hideously embarrassed to come back to his quarters and find Martine draped stark-naked on his bunk. When she'd mentioned something about Miguel suggesting t he idea, Tim had sublimated the embarrassment into anger and had gone tearing off the find Ortiz. Thinking back without the filter of anger to distort things, he remembered the bewildered expression which had been on Miguel's face when Tim had started in on him. It hadn't been until Tim had made some personal remarks about the Cuban's love-life that Ortiz had lost his own temper.

"Kuso," O'Neill groaned as he hit his forehead with the heel of his right hand. "He didn't know a thing about it. The bitch lied to me!"

And he'd swallowed the lie, wanting to lash out at a safe target rather than have to deal with the open lechery of Martine Adebratt. No wonder Ortiz had been so angry. The insults O'Neill had thrown at him wouldn't have meant much, but it w ouldn't have taken him long to realise that Tim had believed the words of someone he barely knew without giving Miguel a chance to defend himself and that would have hit the Sensor Chief where it hurt most. Miguel was all laughter and easy camaraderie on the surface, but he allowed very few people inside his defences and when one of them betrayed his trust, it took a lot to win it back.

"And I don't have the time to do it," O'Neill reflected sadly. "Damn it, Mig; I don't want the last words between us to be angry ones."

This was where having a psi talent would be useful.... if you happened to have one which was worth a pile of beans. Why couldn't he have been a telepath? Someone who could have transmitted his heartfelt apologies to Ortiz before it was too late. Although a not-so-polite scream to be rescued would be just as good. O'Neill smiled bitterly as he realised that he had to be pretty far gone for him to be wishing that he had a stronger psi talent, rather than his usual wishing for it to vani sh altogether. As it was, he had no idea how to switch it on, control it or direct it in any way. Sometimes he could project and other times he was the psychic equivalent of a damp squib.

Still, he wasn't a communications officer for nothing, O'Neill ref lected with a surge of determination. He might not be able to get to a radio and he couldn't send a telepathic message, but paper and pen still had a place in the modern world. Reaching up to his chest pocket, Tim dug out the small pad and pencil he alw a ys carried, just in case. It was amazing just how often it had come in useful in the past and now it would carry his last message to Miguel. Opening the pad and carefully drawing up his uninjured left leg so he could rest the pad against it, Tim gazed a t the blank pages thoughtfully before he started to write.

I need to say this, Mig, even though I know you've probably forgiven

me already. Nothing I yelled at you was the truth, mi amigo. I know

that you know it but I still have to write it, because I feel such a heel

about believing Adebratt. I guess it was the panic of finding her in

my quarters and thinking of what Krieg would say if he came in and

found us. I feel sick that I put my precious 'reputation' ahead of our

friendship. I'm sorry.

I'd ask you not to grieve if I thought I had the slightest chance of you

listening to me. I might even say something about not being worth

your tears, except that I know you'd dig up my body and do something

nasty to it for me even thinking that. You always thought more of me

than I thought of myself. I was never so proud of myself than when

I saw myself reflected in the mirror you held up for me. Why you

thought that way is a mystery to me, but, God, it made me feel good.

No, it made me feel great.

It would have been nice to have gone out in a blaze of glory,

single-handedly saving the planet, but I guess this way is more my

style. (Okay, okay, stop yelling at me. I didn't mean that the way it

came out.) Just don't do the guilt trip, okay? You can't look out for

me all the time, Mig, and not even you can take the blame for a

tectonic event! If it's any consolation, I haven't been writhing in

agony and I've had plenty of time to make my peace with God.

I've probably bored him to death with my confession, but we can't

all lead the exciting sin-filled life that you do! That was a joke, so laugh,

okay? It's the best I can do, under the circumstances.

Writing this is probably a stupid idea. It's more likely to make you feel

worse instead of better, but I'm not shuffling off this mortal coil with

a quarrel between us. Especially a dumb one. (Now the one about you

finishing off the last of my hundred year old cognac is different.

That had better be on your list of sins to confess when it comes to your

time to croak, or I'll be waiting for you on the other side with a celestial crowbar!

Take care of yourself, hermano. I guess I'm going to find out which

of us was right about what comes after the big D. I hope it was your version. Oh, and stay away from Security missions. I don't want you

joining me ahead of schedule.

Tim

O'Neill read back over what he had written and wrinkled his nose. He hadn't meant to come across so sentimental. After hesitating for another minute, he decided to rip it up and start again. Unfortunately, both pad and pencil went flying as the floor underneath him suddenly decided to drop down a couple of feet. Taken completely by surprise, O ' Neill gave a scream of agony as the previously stable console slipped and came crashing down, clipping his leg. He tried to brace himself against the bulkhead and floor, but the entire station seemed to be tilting on its side and despite his best efforts , O'Neill was flung forward and headbutted the console with enough force to send his senses spinning. His last clear thought was that his letter to Miguel would wind up at the bottom of some fissure and would never reach his friend to offer what little comfort it could.

Waking up was something he had never expected to do, so it took him quite a while to realise that he was actually alive. He finally believed what his eyes and ears had been blurringly telling him when he attempted to sit up. The sight of Medbay whirling around him while his entire body exploded with pain was just too normal an experience. He subsided back on the bed with an unheroic yelp and viewed Westphalen's immediate appearance with uncharacteristic delight.

"Painkillers," he whimpered. "Now."

Westphalen's face lost the lines which has marred her beauty and she smiled down at him as she came alongside his bed and tapped in an instruction on the medication panel. The cuff O'Neill wore on his wrist tingled slightly as it responded to the new prescri ption. Tim concentrated on taking deep, even breaths until he felt the painkiller kick in and the agony slowly scale down to manageable levels. Heaving a sigh of relief, he opened his eyes again and smiled up at the doctor a little muzzily.

"I'm not dead?" he demanded, wanting to make it official.

Kristen reached out to flick a finger against the tip of his nose. "No, you managed to luck out again, Mr O'Neill. The rescue launch got to you about ten minutes before the station did a crash dive through a newly created undersea canyon."

"Oh, man," O'Neill breathed. Ten minutes? That was a new record, even for him. "What made you come back?" he asked in confusion.

If anything, her smile widened. "That depends on who you ask. According to Nathan, it was a decision based on information gathered balanced with years of experience. According to Ford, it was to stop Ortiz staging a mutiny and hijacking seaQuest."

"What?" O'Neill gave her a look of pure consternation, wondering if the medication was playing tricks on his hearing. "Why would Ortiz do something like that?"

"Why don't you ask him when he comes to visit?" Westphalen suggested, glancing down at her watch. "He should be along in a few minutes, since he's off duty now."

She gave him another pat on the arm, handed him the control which would allow him to increase or decrease the painkillers within a set parameter and left him to his confusion. He was still trying to work out what she had meant when he was distracted by the sound of her voice f rom the outer room being followed by the unmistakable sound of Ortiz whooping with joy. A couple of seconds later and the door barely survived the Cuban barrelling through it at a rate of knots.

"About time you decided to wake up!" Ortiz said cheerfully as he snagged a chair on the way and settled down beside O'Neill. "Krieg was beginning to talk about setting up a betting pool on how long you were going to stay out."

O'Neill shifted his head to study his friend. The Sensor Chief didn't look like someone living under the threat of being court-martialled for attempted mutiny. He had sprawled with his usual grace in the chair, tilting it back as he gazed back at O'Neill with his usual grin of sparkling mischief. Tim had spent enough time psyching himself up to accepting that he would never see his friend again and it felt a little strange to be swapping good-natured insults with him like nothing had really happened. His throat suddenly closed up and he looked away, shutting his eyes as he remembered the thoughts which had occupied him at the communications station. There was a rustle of movement and butterfly soft fingers touched his arm.

"Too much for you too fast?" Ortiz asked quietly. "Sorry. I figured you'd want normal as fast as possible."

Summoning up a smile which started out shaky but got firmer once he let it out, Tim opened his eyes to find Ortiz gazing down at him in concern. "Normal is fine," he assured the other man. "It just hit me that I wasn't going to die, after all."

Ortiz winced, paling noticeably, then patted O'Neill's arm again before moving back to reclaim his seat. Feeling a little bereft at the loss of tactile reassurance, Tim decided that he needed to distract himself before he terminally embarrassed himself. It wouldn't faze Ortiz in the least if Tim decided to break down, since he came from a culture which was a lot more comfortable with the idea of men showing emotion, but Tim had too many hang-ups to be comfortable with anything more than a minor quiver of the lower lip.

"So what have you been up to?" he demanded. Ortiz sent him an inquiring look. "Westphalen was saying something about you hijacking seaQuest ?"

Ortiz shot a dirty look in the general direction of Westphalen. "That woman has a big mouth," he grumbled.

"Quit telling me the obvious and move on to something I don't know," O'Neill ordered. "What did you do?"

Miguel squirmed a little. "I... wasn't too happy about you charging off to that station," he admitted. "I'd run sensor scans and found pressure po ints building under the surface. I tried to tell Ford but he didn't think it warranted cancelling the mission."

O'Neill waited patiently, feeling a stab of warmth at the realisation that Ortiz had still been looking out for him, even when he was mad as h ellfire and smarting from Tim's unprovoked attack on him. "And?" he prompted when Miguel suddenly decided that a spot on the floor was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

"I, um, deployed a few of the secondary WSKRs and staggered them along our route so I could keep an eye on the station by piggybacking the signal. I couldn't maintain a visual but telemetry came through clear so I knew when the first quake hit. I, er, told Bridger-"

"Told him?" Tim interjected, alerted by the involuntary squirm Ortiz made at that point.

Miguel actually blushed. "I, um, triggered the emergency alarm in his quarters when Ford told me to wait until I sent one of the primary WSKRs back to the site."

"The emergency alarm?" O'Neill repeated faintly. He knew how loud that thing was. "Miguel, was Bridger asleep at the time?" The wince Ortiz gave was answer enough and O'Neill hastily bit down on the inside of his mouth to stop the laughter which threatened. "You woke him up by sounding the emergency alarm in his quarters?" Ortiz nodded. "Did you turn down the volume?"

Ortiz gave him a miserable look. "I didn't know you could."

O'Neill lost it. The expression of resigned annoyance on Miguel's face as Tim collapsed in a fit of helpless giggles only made it worse and it was some time before he sobered up enough to ask what had happened next.

"Well, Bridger came charging onto the Bridge, demanding to know what the emergency was and Ford had to tell him that there wasn't one. Then he put two and two together and started to ream me out."

"Which I bet you responded to with your usual calm and reason," Tim said dryly.

Miguel glowered at him. "They were wasting time," he snapped. "I knew the station had to have been damaged because of the severity of the quake. I'd asked Lon to send a signal and you hadn't responded to it."

"Mig, I was sent there because the set-up wasn't working, remember?" Tim said patiently.

This time the look was one of impatience. "You'd been there for nearly five hours. You'd have fixed it by then."

"Oh." There didn't seem to be anything to be said in the face of suc h overwhelming confidence in his ability and O'Neill decided against telling Miguel that he had, in fact, repaired the damage and had been in the process of clearing up when the quake had hit. The Cuban was bad enough without encouraging him. "Okay, so you yelled back at Ford..."

"And Bridger." Ortiz looked a little sick at that memory. "Ford was ready to relieve me of duty and I was just as set on making them see sense, but Bridger decided to accept my recommendations-"

"Demands," O'Neill murmured with a smile.

"-recommendations," Ortiz continued firmly, "and sent a launch to check you out. It... it got there just in time," he finished a lot more quietly.

"So Westphalen told me," Tim agreed soberly. There was a moment of uneasy silence before O'Neill stirred. "Listen, Mig, there's something I have to tell you..."

"No, you don't," Ortiz interrupted, shaking his head.

"Yes, I do," O'Neill insisted, trying to lever himself up.

"No," Ortiz said firmly, getting up to lay a hand against Tim's chest and frustrate his plans. "You don't have to say a thing."

Feeling more than a little indignant, Tim opened his mouth to argue further, then closed it again when Ortiz used his other hand to reach into his chest pocket and pulled out a familiar looking pad . "Recognise this?" the Cuban asked quietly. "I picked it up while the corpsmen were working on you."

"You were there?" Tim gasped.

Ortiz gave him a level look. "Where else would I be?" he demanded.

"Ah, Miguel, I'm sorry," O'Neill whispered, then stopped as Miguel laid a hand against his mouth.

"No more. This said it all and it's over and done with." Miguel opened the pad and pulled the pages of the letter free before he tossed the pad on the bed beside the lieutenant.

"What are you going to do with that," Tim asked nervously as he watched Miguel stuff the letter back in his pocket.

The Cuban gave him a slow smile. "Keep it. Read it every now and then. Remember it the next time you jump to idiot conclusions and go for my throat. You're never going on another mission while there's bad blood between us, O'Neill, and that's a promise."

"I guess I can live with that," Tim decided after a moment of trying to get his emotions under control. "I meant what I said in there, Miguel."

"I know you did. That's why I'm keeping it. And now I have to get out of here. Westphalen said you have to rest up and I have to start my punishment detail."

"Punishment detail? But you were right and saved my life!" O'Neill spluttered indignantly.

"Yeah, but I, um, got a little carried away with my arguments on why we shouldn't wait before sending a rescue launch to check on you."

"Oh? How carried away?"

"Let's just say that Ford didn't appreciate some of the more technical observations I made," Miguel said in em barrassment. "And Bridger didn't appreciate the black eye and mild concussion he got from falling over his desk when he shot out of his bunk when the alarm went off in his ear. And I don't think Westphalen liked what I called her when she sent two corps men instead of coming herself."

He paused for breath and Tim gave him a wide grin of amused exasperation. "Why don't we save time and you tell me who you didn't insult, threaten or otherwise terrorise while I was away?"

Ortiz grinned back, then pretended to give the matter some thought. "I think I went pretty easy on those pretty ensigns who came aboard last time we docked at Pearl," he finally offered with the familiar glint of mischief in his eyes.

"That figures. Go on, get out of here. I need to get better as fast as possible so I can get out of here and run interference for you. Come back later on and bring me some cookies?" he wheedled as Ortiz turned to go. "You know where they are."

"Yep, right next to the cognac."

"Cognac? Since when do I have cognac in my quarters?" O'Neill squawked.

"Since I got some dirt on Krieg and made him find me another bottle to replace the one I used up for the Christmas cake."

"Don't remind me," O'Neill said with a shudder. He stared at his friend. "Did you tell Krieg what kind of cognac it was?"

"Yeah. He screamed a lot but he coughed up," Ortiz said smugly.

"Miguel, have you any idea how much that must have cost Krieg?" Tim asked in awe. "What kind of dirt did you have on him?"

"Never you mind," Ortiz said severely, then ruined it with one of his crooked grins. "Suffice to say that I could have made a fortune by selling the photos! And before you say anything, it was his own fault. I just dangled th e bait; he was the one who took the hook and ran with it."

"You set him up?" O'Neill said wonderingly. "And you left me out of it?" He grabbed at a pillow with his free arm and threw it at the Cuban who dodged it with ease. "I want to see those pictures!"

"I gave them and the negatives back to Krieg when he got me the cognac," Miguel admitted. He waited until he saw the look of disappointment on Tim's face. "But I had an extra set of prints made up before them. I don't know if I should show them to you, though. You're far too innocent for such things."

"So corrupt me!" O'Neill wailed, then went scarlet and subsided back on the bed as Westphalen came in.

"Something I should know about?" she asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Yeep," O'Neill managed.

"That means 'absolutely not and can you shoot me now'," Ortiz translated helpfully.

"I thought so. Well, I'm clean out of bullets, Lieutenant, but feel free to die of embarrassment. It will make for an interesting medical paper and I need something for the next issue of Ocean Medicine. You'd better go, Mr Ortiz. Embarrassment can be catching."

"Okay, Doc. See you later, Tim."

With a casual wave of his hand, Ortiz bounced out, leaving O'Neill to savour that most beautiful of words. Later.Thanks to his friend's paranoia, he had a later, and it would be filled with a friendship he had had cause to appreciate like never before. Maybe he would open that new bottle of cognac and teach Miguel to drink it properly instead of using it as a cooking ingredient!

(c) 1999 by Linda Chapple.