Disclaimer-- I don't own any part of the Stargate Franchise. Everyone reading this knows that...
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CIGAR BOX
It's funny the things that you keep. Small things. Little reminders. Fragments and mementoes of a life. Things that will fit into a cigar box.
His hands tremble as he removes the rubber-band and opens the lid.
There are photos, obviously. Family pictures, dog-eared and smudged from handling. He takes his time shuffling through them. The first is one of him and a handful of cousins fishing together on grandpa's dock in Minnesota—they're all wearing life jackets in the picture and are wet from pushing one another into the lake again and again. It's no wonder they didn't catch anything but colds that day.
Another is of a woman and a child, golden and smiling in sparkling surf that appears to go on forever and ever. It was their only real vacation together; others had been planned but were always cancelled due to his work schedule. He hadn't wanted to go in the end, he'd just gotten back from a difficult mission, but she'd persuaded him. He is so grateful for that, so eternally grateful...
A third shows two men and a woman dressed in green BDUs huddled together around a cooking-fire. Two of them are laughing so hard that it almost hurts; the third has raised an eyebrow in feigned disapproval. He doesn't remember the mission or the words that he'd said to elicit those responses specifically. The expressions are so familiar to him that they've become amalgams for all their times and trips together; whenever he closes his eyes, this is exactly how he sees his team.
There are other photos: one of him and his mother; one of his first Special Ops unit, a band of brothers in every sense (sadly, he remembers that the rest are gone now); one of two balding Air Force generals flanking his second-in-command on the day of her promotion to Lieutenant Colonel—two in dress blues and one in a funny brown tunic; one of a smiling alien trying his first piece of deep-dish pizza flown out from Chicago specially for the occasion; one of two quirky sergeants in the base infirmary, one unconscious and wearing a head-bandage; and one of a short red-haired woman, her adopted daughter, and their dog at the park.
After the photos, there are papers. Short testaments to the past. A Charlie Brown comic that always reminds him of his dad. A letter that his mom sent to him when he was in basic training. The poem that his best man read at his wedding. The scripture that had been read at his son's funeral. Too many pencil-scrawled eulogies that he'd written for friends (one friend was at two and counting). The note that he'd written his ex-wife when he thought he was dying. His first embossed invitation to the White House. The receipt from O'Malley's verifying that they'd finally paid off the damages. A Star Wars ticket stub. A crossword puzzle filled in with some alien gibberish. A business card for a barber in Indiana. And, an autographed script page from Wormhole Extreme.
Then, there's the list, folded and tied. It's a list of all the soldiers and civilians that have died in service to their world and country under his command, a list that seemed to be growing exponentially since they put the stars on his shoulders. It's not morbid, he protests to noone, as he reverently touches the document; it's a way of not forgetting. But, he doesn't open the bundle. He has no names to add to it today, and he offers a prayer of thanks to the God he hopes is listening.
Finally, he fumbles through the small artifacts at the bottom of the box. There's a bullet to represent the time after his son's death, a severe reminder to him to never to give up hope again. Then, there's the small vial of sand from Abydos, holding within it the promise of new worlds and new wonders. One (just one) corroded replicator block so that he won't forget that even brilliantly advanced races like the Asgard and the Ancients make mistakes. He also sees his wedding ring from his failed marriage, a Zippo, an SG-1 patch, and his yo-yo from that day when he'd been forced to tell the truth about feelings he'd kept hidden. And, there in the upper right corner, lies what he's been looking for.
He removes his grandmother's wedding band from the box. He'd asked his mother for it several years ago, causing her to purse her mouth to hold back questions. And, for all those years it had sat amongst his memories in the box as an unspoken pledge, a toast to the potential of the future. A future both dreamt of and feared. A future anticipated but nearly impossible. A future that might, he realizes, begin today.
He slips the ring onto the tip of his pinky finger, replaces the other items back into the box, and carefully closes the cover on his past. Putting the box down, he stands up, straightens his collar, and walks out of his office to face whatever the future might bring.