Colonel Jack O'Neill opened the passenger side door of his truck and pulled out four 6-packs. The next two days were his and he had every intention of putting the last mission as far behind him as possible and the alcohol he carried into his house was the perfect way to start. He let George know he wasn't available; his cell would be off and he would not be answering his home phone. George peered at him hard and nodded curtly. "Understood, Jack. Dismissed, see you in two days."
"Thank you, sir." He saluted briefly and left the General's office.
Jack grabbed a beer and tossed the rest into the cooler. Twisting the cap off, he pitched it into the nearby garbage can. The beer was cold and went down easily; he would worry about food later, right now he wanted to begin his ritual. He scanned and appraised his kitchen. Clean, but it needed to be cleaner; he was gone for 7 nights and the thin layer of dust needed to be removed; his house needed to be cleansed. He finished beer number one in three long swigs and grabbed another. He filled the sink with hot, soapy water and as he washed the countertops he finished beer number two. On the clean countertops, Jack lined up the two empty beer bottles with military precision. In the morning, he knew, there would be twenty four; six to a row, each precisely equidistant from the other. Beer number three was for the microwave, inside and out. Beer number four was for the stovetop, oven, and fan. Beer number five was for the refrigerator; all remnants were discarded; the fridge rinsed with baking soda to remove any offending odours. Beer number six concluded with the kitchen floor; the garbage can was already clean enough and just waiting for the beer caps, pizza boxes, and depending on the evening, puke. Jack closed his eyes and felt the faint hum in his body. He murmured a negative and forced his eyes open. "Not yet, I'm not ready."
Grabbing the next 6-pack out of the fridge, Jack made his way into the living room. Here, he paused and surveyed the state of his home. The cleaning service had completed their tasks admirably, he could see the carpet was freshly vacuumed, the plants watered and dusted. Jack knew the upstairs bathroom and bedroom were waiting for him, clean and sterile. He scanned the few plants he had and shook his head – "No way in hell I'm going to talk to you." Saluting them, his eye moved to the coffee table. Waiting for him, the TV and DVD remotes. He made his way upstairs, to the bathroom. He left the beer carton on the vanity and striped, tossing his clothes into the hamper. He twisted a cap off his beer number seven and studied himself in the mirror, tilting his head to the right, to the left, turning his body to examine the new wounds. He didn't bother looking himself in the eye; he already knew what he would find when he looked. He would look tomorrow. He tentatively touched the wound on his shoulder; this one would leave a scar. The others would fade over the next month or two. He flexed his knees to shake out the burning pain. He rubbed them gently, realizing his knees took too many hits this time, they had slid hard against too many rocks and debris while fired his weapon. He tried to clear his voice, but none of the sounds sounded like him; he had screamed too hard and too long and he was hoarse.
Jack let the shower run, heating the bathroom, adding steam to the room to help him relax his muscles. He had a shower on base, but it wasn't enough, a military shower was not for comfort, but for purpose. He popped the caps off beer number eight and nine and stepped into his shower. He drank the beer as the hot water raced down his chest, raced down his back. He flinched as the water stung at his shoulder wound and he leaned back so the water could run down his stomach and his ass. He grabbed his soap, the soap Carter gave him for Christmas last year, and slowly lathered and cleaned every inch of his body. The smell of musk and sandalwood eased his mind; Carter understood the ritual, she had helped him perfect his, she used jasmine and sandalwood to wash away her mission remnants. She still cried, she had told him that one night. He didn't cry anymore, there wasn't any point. The water turned tepid and Jack slowly turned off the water; letting the water drip off him. He opened the shower stall, carrying the empty beer bottles by their necks, and stepped out to dry himself. The bathroom mirror was completely opaque; he wiped away the mist, carefully wiping until he stood in front of a perfect circle. He lathered his face and quietly and efficiently shaved his face, his neck, his Adam's apple. Finished, he rinsed the blade and put it away for the next time. He opened his new toothbrush and scrubbed his teeth with baking soda toothpaste. Rinse and spit, he tossed the toothbrush into the garbage can. He could never use the same toothbrush after a mission; he bought them in bulk to ensure he would never run out.
Beer number ten curdled his stomach: toothpaste, no matter how innocuous, did not go well with beer. He let his stomach settle before he quietly finished this beer, letting the cool bottle rest against his chest. He dropped the towel into the hamper and walked into his bedroom, carrying the 6-pack carton. The hum in his body was definitely stronger now as he collected socks, underwear, t-shirt, and sweatpants and sat on the bed. He sat on the opposite of his side, refusing to acknowledge the pictures that greeted him each morning as he woke up. Beer number eleven had him dressed; beer number twelve had him pushing his hair back and briskly rubbing his hand through the short silver strands. He carefully stowed the empty bottles into their carton slots and stood to go downstairs.
The ritual was fifty percent completed; he didn't know if he was on target until beer number twenty, so he had to be patient and hope the ritual would work this time. Back in his living room, Jack reached for the remote and flicked on the television. He made his way slowly into the kitchen, taking his time to align the empty bottles, drying them to ensure there were no rings to stain his countertop. He grabbed the next 6-pack carton and headed towards the couch; listening to see if the shows he needed had started. He dropped the beer carton on the coffee table and flopped onto the middle of the couch. He noted the garbage can was misplaced, he moved it three inches north-by-northeast to his couch and pitched the beer number thirteen bottle cap to test the accuracy of the placement. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the television and cruised through the channels, returning to the first channel as he waited and finished bottle number thirteen. He glanced at his watch – one minute and the show would be on. He would have thirty minutes, with commercials, to pitch and test his accuracy with the next five beer caps. Beer number fourteen, commercial, beer number fifteen, commercial, canned laughter, and finally a saxophone soliloquy; he had hoped for the trumpet, but he settled into the episode and let it wash over him. Beer number sixteen, the show wrapped up; he switched to the public broadcasting system channel and turned the volume off. The surtitles flashed and Jack had some difficulty following; the words were fuzzy around the edges, but the understanding of pain and suffering was universal. He turned the volume high when the performance came to his favourite aria and he finished beer number seventeen. Another aria and beer number eighteen; beer number nineteen and twenty concluded with the duet, the performers signing of a simple love and a longing for a life together to end after years of hardship and endurance. Jack sighed and turned the TV off. His body hummed and Jack relaxed into the sensations. He stood and lumbered outside and climbed up to the top of his loft, to his telescope, and to breathe in the sharp evening air. He absently opened beer number twenty-one and tossed the cap into barbeque. He would clean it out before the next team gathering, before the first winter snowfall, sometime in the future. Jack rubbed his eyes, the grit from the mission still stung as he drained beer number twenty-two. Jack waited, the vibrations in his body overwhelmed him; the ritual was working. He could go back, hit the rewind button, and review the mission. His memories were clean, not orderly, there were too many sights and sounds; he centered on the one memory he needed to wrap-up with as many protective layers as he could muster. The sounds were the first to waver and go mute; the vision flipped to cartoon pictures, incomplete and in black 'n white. He nodded to himself and to the spirit of his son. "Charlie, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I couldn't save them." The images of the Jaffa shooting the village children in the back reeled into his mind. "Shit! God damn it, fuck it all to hell! Shit!" Jack grabbed his head and pressed his thumbs harder into his eyes. The images from the mission weren't going to go away; the children desperately pulled at their parents, urging them to get up and run, begging them to move, screaming at them, and frozen when some realized their parents weren't going to save them. Others tucked themselves in against their mother, their father, crying as the blasts seared into them and silenced their cries. Jack's stomach rolled in protest and spewed out its content in revulsion. He tipped his head back and wished he could feel his son's forgiveness. Charlie had to know he couldn't save them all; it was just something Jack wished he could do each and every time. He fell back and waited. The ritual failed and Jack made his way back into his home. He stepped inside and carefully counted down with each locked door and window, slowly sipping beer number twenty-three, each latch locking firmly in place. Beer number twenty-four; he tucked the last empty into the beer carton and fell back onto the couch. Jack drifted off into unconsciousness: aware that he wouldn't dream tonight; he would wake up tomorrow with a massive hangover; he would sleep tomorrow with nightmares; he would return to work on the agreed upon date and he would be ready for his next mission.