(This story was originally written in 2011 and has been updated for composition and clarity in 2020.)
“Up and at ‘em, Jackson.”
A boot connected with Daniel’s side. He groaned and rolled away, snuggling deeper into his sleeping bag. His head was killing him—felt like a full marching band playing the 1812 Overture in there, complete with canons. The boot nudged him again, a little more insistent this time.
“Go 'way,” Daniel mumbled. He was vaguely aware of other voices around him but had neither the will nor want to get up or even to try and understand what they were saying. After a short discussion, the foot ground into his back and shook violently.
“Get up.” Daniel recognized Mitchell’s voice, but he sounded like he was speaking from a great distance. And through cotton. His brain fought to catch up to his senses while the treads of his commander’s boot dug into his tender flesh. Daniel frowned into the soft fabric of his bag. Flesh? Something wasn’t right.
He reached a tentative hand over his body and let it drift over his back and around the boot still planted there. Where the hell was his shirt? The foot moved, and then he felt someone squat down next to his head. When Mitchell spoke again it was softer and closer to his ear.
“That’s right, Daniel, wakey-wakey. Time to get up and face the music.”
What was that supposed to mean? And why the hell was he naked? The realization that not only was his shirt missing, but his pants as well finally broke through the dense fog in his head. He pushed up on one arm and looked around—his vision still fuzzy from sleep.
Somewhere behind him, Sam snickered, and Mitchell looked like he was enjoying things way too much. Daniel narrowed his eyes at the blurred outline of the man standing next to his head. Someone—Teal’c he realized a moment later—handed him his glasses. “Why are you all-” he started to ask when the world around him suddenly came into crisp focus. “What the?”
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