Series:
King of the Goold's.
Authors: Amberfly and Eilidh17
Category:
General.
Warnings: Occasional bad language. It's Jack!
Feedback:
Definitely.
An idea we had one night! I hope that we will continue!
In his long career as a soldier, Jack considered that he'd both taught and learned many things. Some he admitted, he'd paid lip service to only. Yes Sir, No sir, three bags full, sir. Other's he squirreled away in his subconscious, retrieving when the need arose. How to drag his sorry ass through a Middle Eastern desert until help arrived was high on his cerebral list. Although, he cheerfully conceded, some things he'd learnt had no use at all.
The finer art of peeling a mountain of potatoes, one eye half shut courtesy of a pissed marine sprung to mind. As a younger man, he'd often learnt his lessons the hard way. His old drill sergeant grabbed the scruff of his neck more than once and purred, "Take the Duke's advice, airman, life is hard, it's harder if you're stupid." Jack found it hard to argue with logic like that.
Being a prankster, some of his learning curves were just plain adolescent. For instance, Jack still wasn't quite sure how many drinks he needed to scull before collapsing shit- faced into an inebriated coma. He was always too drunk to keep score. Jack knew that's what your teammates were for. To watch your six, despite the fact they were rat assed and barely standing themselves. That's okay; they knew there were plenty of SP's happy to escort them safely to their warm beds.
However, there were things he knew that couldn't be taught to rawboned recruits. They were instinctive, intuitive. Either you got it or you didn't. Identify the threat. If it is, make a decision. Do I need to eliminate it? If not, will it eliminate me?
Devastating in its simplicity.
However, to be fair, simple, complex, it was all the same to Jack. He did what was needed -- end of discussion.
Yes indeed. Jack O'Neill was a glass half full kinda guy. He had a happy knack of knowing how hard he could yank that metaphorical tiger's tail, before it bit back and swallowed his career. Stripes, teeth, claws an' all.
He occasionally crossed that fine line and he knew it. With a shit-eating grin, Jack didn't care; he could charm the birds from the trees. His Irish Granny had taught him, nobody plans to fail they just fail to plan, and Jack lived by her motto.
Mostly.
However, with the expected comes the unexpected. Fate can play a mean game of Contract Bridge when she puts her mind to it, and she trumped the SGC beautifully.
Weeks later, after all the excitement had died down, and he and Daniel had been restored to their former glory, Jack still wondered if it had all been a late night, anchovy- induced figment of his beer- addled imagination. This, he never discounted. Anchovies have been known to be tricky critters. It's all that darn salt.
If anyone had dared tell Jack O'Neill he'd have traipsed across the galaxy as an irritating eleven year old, dressed as a mini, cross-dressing Goa'uld, he'd have popped them on the nose. Or worse. Probably much worse. To make matters worse, he had spent much of the time dodging Jacob Carter, who for reasons Jack was never going to mention, held him by the scruff of his neck, occasionally aiming ill-tempered swats at his backside.
The only thing that made this image bearable was that Jacob had an equally firm hold on Daniel. Since Daniel was only seven years old, Jack had at least been the boss of someone.
TBC?