Accidents Will Happen
by Pho
"Whoa!" Jack O'Neill dodged the third maintenance worker since arriving at the SGC. "Airman, what is going on?"
"Sorry, sir. Orders from the Pentagon. All emergency alarms boxes are to be painted fluorescent orange so that they can be seen in the event of an emergency."
Jack just shook his head. "Even though they flash red when active. Sweet. Carry on, son." The SG-1 colonel hurried down the hall, heading for Dr. Daniel Jackson's lab. Jackson, the archaeologist. Jackson, the bookworm. Jackson, the geek. Jackson, the guy who now owed him twenty bucks on last night's hockey game, and Jack aimed to collect.
His hand turned the knob of Daniel's door easily, and he pushed. Nothing happened. 'Blast. Stuck, again. Oh well, maintenance can fix it while they're here.' Putting his weight into it, Jack shoved, the door opened, and Daniel's startled shout died in a pain-filled gurgle. The colonel forced his way into the room. "Daniel? Oh, my God!" Jack momentarily froze, then hit the emergency button. "Medical team. Level 26. Lab 7."
Daniel lay motionless on the floor, totally immersed in a sticky mass of fluorescent orange paint. His body was framed by the aluminum ladder, and his head was completely encased in the large economy-sized paint bucket. Jack knelt by his side, and breathed a sigh of relief that his friend's pulse was strong. Deciding it would do no harm to move Daniel slightly, Jack took hold of the bucket. "Easy, buddy, let's get this off." He gave a light tug. Nothing. Frowning, he got a better grip, and pulled harder. Still nothing. Shit! He would've thought the wet paint... Oh, God. Orange. Daniel's gonna be ... orange. Visions of a glow-in-the-dark archaeologist translating multi-colored hieroglyphics was almost too much for the colonel. He struggled to stifle a laugh thinking, 'It's not funny, Jack, he could be ... hurt.' A low moan reached his ears. 'Or not.' "Daniel?"
"Glumph!"
"What?" Jack strained to understand Daniel's mumbled words.
The young archaeologist raised orange hands to his head, and began to pull frantically at the bucket. "Glumph...opham."
"Uh, Yeah, right. Help's on the way, Daniel. Just relax." Jack pinned the younger man's hands with his own.
"Give me room to wor ... what happened?" Janet Fraiser's voice was stunned.
"Accident. It was an accident." Jack mumbled apologetically, feeling somewhat like the little boy who'd been caught dipping the little girl's curls in the proverbial inkwell.
Janet glared at the colonel. "Help me get this off. He shouldn't swallow any of the paint."
Jack helped the doctor pull Daniel into a sitting position. From inside the bucket, Daniel muttered. "Gl...lt"
The doctor turned for a translation to the colonel, who merely shrugged. Sighing, she said, "Let's get this off." Together the two of them pulled on the bucket, which declined to move. The pair of corpsmen who arrived moments after the doctor, replaced her and the three men tried again to pull the bucket off. A pained yelp of "ers" led them to believe they might be hurting the occupant.
"Now what?" Jack asked, trying not to grin. He was concerned, honest, it was just soooo funny.
"We get him to the infirmary, and cut it off."
"Gl.... kes"
Janet sighed. "Guess that means 'okay'."
Jack nodded. "That's what I heard."
The grinning corpsmen wisely said nothing as they loaded the still gurgling scientist onto the stretcher.
******
Two hours, and fifteen pairs of scissors, five knifes, and two saw blades later, saw the removal of the bucket completed. Daniel sputtered, gasped, and spat paint across the room. "GAD!" Grabbing the offered towel from Jack, he started to wipe away the excess paint.
"How many fingers?" Janet caught his attention with her tone.
"Two! Phewey." Paint dripped down his chin.
"That's right. Lean back. Look at the light." She waved her flashlight between his pupils and watched with satisfaction as they dilated correctly. "Doesn't look like a concussion and I don't see any red in the orange. Looks like you're free to go, Daniel... Uh, try not to drip paint on the floor on your way to the showers."
Jack solicitously helped him off of the examining table, keeping the painted portions of Daniel well away from his uniform. "Well Paint-boy, let's get you cleaned up."
"Paint-boy? Paint-boy? Jack!"
The colonel grinned, then sobered. "Seriously, Danny, I'm sorry."
"That's okay, Jack. You couldn't have known the ladder was there. I should've locked the door."
Jack made to clap the younger man on his shoulder then thought better off it. "Yeah, that's right."
"Gee. Thanks, Jack." Daniel stared at his clothing. "This color is *awful!*"
"Yeah, doesn't go too well with khaki, but it's even worse on blond."
"Blond? Oh, GOD!" Frantically feeling his hair, the younger man asked timorously, "Just how long will this last?
"Peterson in maintenance says it takes about six weeks to fade off of skin."
Daniel froze and gaped at Jack. "S...Six weeks?"
"Yep. But don't worry. Bently in research is trying to formulate a solvent that won't take your skin off."
"Be sure to thank her for me. I'm going into seclusion until the orange is gone."
"Now, Daniel..."
"Uh,uh. You can't talk me out of it...."
"Daniel."
"... And no missions, either. I will *not* do alien worlds wearing orange paint."
"Danny."
"The answer is still *no*, Jack. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to shower." Daniel slammed the door to the public showers in Jack's grinning face.
The grinning colonel opened the door. "Uh, did I mention that you owe me twenty bucks?"
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