Existence
Spoilers: Stargate: The Movie; 1x06 Cold Lazarus; 1x18 Tin Man; 4x21 Double Jeopardy; 7x03 Fragile Balance.
Warnings: Character death.
Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate or anything associated with it. Nor do I owe the phrase 'So long and thanks for all the fish,' that belongs to Douglas Adams.
He watched the black pick-up drive away and wondered how many times a person could survive having their life torn away from them. If his life was anything to go by the answer was 'A lot.' He turned back towards the brick building that housed his new life, readjusting his sunglasses so they sat more firmly on his head. He glanced around, habit letting him take note of the various entrances, exits, and potential hiding places with part of his mind while the rest of him focused on the teenagers talking in groups around him. It had been decades since he'd last been in this situation, but he figured that some things were universal. Like the necessity of putting on a veneer of self-confidence and bravado. He'd have time to contemplate his new circumstances later. Too much time.
The door to the rather barren apartment opened with a groan, far wider than was necessary to admit the lanky figure that passed through the gap. Jon dropped his back-pack onto the floor next to the door, toeing his shoes off simultaneously. He sank onto the ratty sofa with a sigh, draping one arm over his eyes as he lay back into the overly soft cushions. If I was in my real body there'd not be a hope in hell I could lie here without suffering a back-ache tomorrow.
It was the only good thing about this existence. He refused to dignify what he was doing with the title of 'life'. It wasn't, as far as he was concerned, anything of the sort. His life had been going through the Stargate, battling the Goa'uld, fighting alongside Carter, Teal'c, and Daniel. It had been paperwork, and gunfights, and pizza, and beer, and driving a black pick-up in circles at 02:00 when the nightmares woke him. It had been the comfort that came from knowing he had three people he could talk to or sit with or listen to and rely on completely. Now he had an empty grey apartment – without beer, or a truck, or friends -- that was admirably suited to his empty grey existence.
Jon let out a bleak chuckle. On the bright side, he hadn't been under-observation for the last week, so the Air Force must have decided he was going to play ball with them on this. How the hell they had thought he wouldn't spot the men clearly keeping him under surveillance he didn't know. The Air Force had trained him to spot that kind of behaviour, fer cryin' out loud! As far as he could figure, two possibilities existed: they either thought he'd be too busy fitting into his 'new life' to notice, or they looked at him and saw a fifteen year old boy who shouldn't have the skills of a fifty-something ex-Black Ops colonel and underestimated him. He'd go with option B, Bob.
It probably shouldn't bother him as much as it did. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself. Hell, he'd been making people underestimate him for years by acting like a fool. But that had been by choice. He'd had no choice this time. Again. And you should be used to that, by now, O'Neill! He berated himself sharply, dragging his fingers down his face as brown eyes slowly opened to peer at the dusty cracked ceiling. God, what a mess. He felt almost like it was 1970 again, except at least that time he'd had something to look forward to in his new life.
Freshly graduated from high-school, his mind filled with his granpa's stories of flying during the First World War, combined with his own need to go higher and faster and a stubborn resolve to make things better – easier – for his siblings, Jack had signed up at a time when others were fleeing to Canada to avoid being drafted. Hardly a popular move. For all that he'd felt eminently suited to a life as an officer in the Air Force he hated what his enlisting had done to his relationship with his family. Which was to destroy it, essentially. Sure, his siblings accepted his financial help (a cheque, sent monthly, in a hand-addressed envelope from whichever base he was currently stationed at), but they never really forgave him for abandoning them. Especially not as they'd already had friends and relatives come back wounded or not at all. He could understand it; the constant fear that they'd hear about him from an official notice rather than from a monthly letter. But he had survived. And he'd sent them money (his only means of showing that he cared) until his baby sister wrote him back to say that she'd graduated, she had a job, and 'So long, and thanks for all the fish'.
His parents never forgave him. His dad, while not joining in anti-war rallies, wasn't a supporter. Jack never really knew why, but figured his dad had his reasons. His mother simply gave him a sad look and commented that he was 'wasting his potential'. Whatever that meant. All it meant to Jack was that he started his life in the Air Force alone and family-less. Luckily, training kept him (almost) busy enough to care, and after that, well, he had newfound comrades, a purpose, and a job he was well-suited for and that became his life.
The one time he had tried to reconnect with his family had been when he married Sara. She never understood why the groom's side of the church was full of men in uniform and devoid of any blood relations. But, in the grand scheme of things, that didn't matter, and Jack started the next phase of his life madly in love with the blonde woman who fixed cars, laughed at his jokes, and worried every time the boys came over that one of them would want something other than beer and steak. Of course, that phase ended too. The single crack of a gunshot rending the warm fall air and Jack felt his life fall apart before his eyes.
Jon groaned, swiping a hand down his face. He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't think about it. But he also couldn't not think about it, not when he was thinking about his new life now. This cloned thing – it couldn't be worse than Charlie. Nothing was worse than Charlie. But he'd managed to move on, thanks to the Stargate and one Dr. Daniel Jackson. He'd rebuilt his life gradually, throwing his complete being into the creation of the Stargate program, the building of his team, and the battle against the Goa'uld. He'd regained a purpose, a duty, a place where he belonged, and from that he'd come to appreciate life again.
He'd regained a family in SG-1. An odd-ball one, for sure, but a family nevertheless, and he imagined that it was only the continued presence of the others (and his ability to do what he did best – lead a team into combat) that had allowed his robot self to continue. He had seen it on his robot-other's face; the man was devastated that he would never be able to return to earth, to his house, to all the little things that made up your everyday life that individually seemed unimportant, but without which you felt adrift.
Jon knew how he felt. At least, the man could take a stab at it, After all, what am I but a cheap imitation? Jon thought bitterly. But the encounter with Harlen and the creation of the robot copies of SG-1 had meant that Jack had contemplated such an existence before now. The others didn't get it. Well, Teal'c might have. The big guy hadn't seemed all that enthusiastic about the prospect of a duplicate, either. But Carter and Daniel – the robots were fascinating for them. Were they alive? How were they made? What did it mean for life as we knew it? All grand questions and probably quite important ones to some philosopher in his ivory tower, but Jack was a simple guy. It was his life, and the robot was a piece of metal not entitled to it. Not that the robot had had a hope in hell of managing to live peacefully on Earth anyways, but that was beside the point. Jack had thought about the robots for weeks after their return from Harlen's planet, and weeks again after their second encounter with them on P2X-729. The only conclusion he could come to was that, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't blame his robot-self for leading his team through the 'Gate. He would have done the same thing – because at least heading out on missions with his team gave him a purpose for existing, something worthwhile to do. Even if it was just a pale imitation of what they had accomplished at the SGC, it was something.
And that was Jon's problem. He had nothing and no-one. It was Charlie all over again, except this time he was the victim instead of the guilty party.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted his musings. Jon tensed for a moment before moving stealthily towards the door, peering through the peephole just as a second, rather more impatient, rap sounded. He sucked in a deep breath at the face he saw, bracing himself for the upcoming confrontation even as he pulled the door open.
The familiar features of his original body jumped into sight, Jack's eyes skimming down his clone's frame even as the boy stepped backwards into the apartment, reluctantly letting Jack in as any conversation between the two of them was unlikely to be one they could have in the hall.
They settled on seats – Jon back on the sofa, Jack in the armchair – and faced each other across the coffee-table in silence, both equally unwilling to start what was sure to be an uncomfortable conversation. Jon finally sighed. Maybe there was something to be said for the impatience of youth after all. "So. I hope you avoided all the cameras on the way in? It took me a couple of days to clear this place of bugs and learn about the rest of the security measures and I'd hate to have to do that all again because an Air Force Colonel tipped them off."
He got a brisk nod in response as the older man reached up and removed his sunglasses. "I avoided them."
Silence permeated the room for a second time, Jon debating whether he really wanted to bother with this intrusion, while Jack glanced around, taking in the grey walls, the cracked ceilings, and the lack of any personal comforts. Finally, Jon decided he'd had enough of this silent scrutiny of his living-space and interrupted Jack's observations. "You're not dead, so they can't need my expertise at the SGC, I doubt the Air Force is willing to re-employ a 15-year-old Colonel, and I have to believe that you're as uncomfortable with this--" he waved his hands descriptively between them- "situation as I am, so why the hell are you here?"
The outburst didn't perturb Jack at all. If anything, the Colonel seemed to have been expecting it, if the slight smirk on his face was any indication. But his face quickly became serious again, as he gazed at his hands as if deciding how to answer. Finally, after toying with his long fingers for several seconds, he glanced at his clone and reached one hand around to the small of his back. Jon tensed on the sofa, body poised to spring, before he realized that Jack was moving slowly and deliberately, bringing the gun out so that the weapon was never pointing at either of them as he reached to place it on the coffee table. The faint click of metal against the veneer as Jack laid the weapon down exactly between them diverted Jon's attention away from the man's movements and to the gun itself. A Beretta 92FS. He didn't need it, but a silent nod from the original gave him confirmation anyways. The gun that killed Charlie.
His hand reached out, wrapping with the ease of familiarity around the grip of the weapon, automatically noting that while the safety was on, the gun was loaded. The young fingers looked incongruous against the black metal of the firearm, but its familiar weight and texture caused him to caress it nevertheless, disregarding his internal feelings of alarm and dismay at seeing a lethal weapon in such youthful hands. He wasn't young, despite appearances, and he could never be young again.
As he brought the weapon carefully into his lap, he looked at his elder counterpart with a deep consideration. He could clearly see the tension in the older man's jaw – likely coming from the same source as his own feelings of alarm – but at the same time, he could see a resolve in Jack, that he was doing the right thing. "Why?" was all Jon asked.
"I'm you," was all the man said at first, and that was probably all that was necessary, but Jack continued after a pause. "I've been listening to Carter and Daniel go on about the miracle of a second-youth and a second-chance and a second-everything for the last few months, and the whole time, all I could think, was that a second-anything was the last thing I wanted." He shrugged looking unaccountably weary as he leaned back into the armchair. "Maybe it's because I'm older than them – world-weary – or maybe it's because the path my life has taken means I feel the weight of each year –" and Jon knew what he meant when Jack struggled with the word, because it wasn't each year, it was each mission, each decision, each death, each missing piece of his soul, – "more than they do, but to me, another fifty plus years of life? No thanks. Not if it means another fifty years of war and battle and death." And then the older man paused, rubbing his hands nervously down the thighs of his jeans as if debating how much more of himself to reveal. "And Jon?" He glanced at the boy, identical brown eyes locking, "It will mean more war and death. I know it. You know it." He shook his head sadly, before adding, "Carter and Daniel seem to think that you've got the opportunity to do whatever you want, live life differently." His tone changed, taking on shades of bemusement and bitterness in equal measure. "How those two continue to be so naïve after so many years, I really don't know. But I'm warning you, the Air Force has already expressed an interest in your future with them as a Special-Ops officer. Either a low-ranking one or a lone operative, and they've indicated a preference for the second option. And while I'm sure that eventually you could get a place at the SGC again, it couldn't happen while there are still people there who know me in case the NID heard of it. Right now Hammond and I are able to keep them off your back because of your age, but as soon as you hit eighteen that'll no longer be a valid excuse."
The apartment was silent for a few moments after that, but a faint rustle of leather broke the air as Jack reached inside his jacket again. This time, his hand came out with a manila envelope, and Jon already knew what was inside it. Even as the different coloured books spilled onto the coffee table, followed by a bundle of bills, Jon was imperceptibly tightening his grip on the gun. But Jack knew him, and Jack caught it, and the elder man reached out to straighten the official looking documents nevertheless.
As the rustling of paper drifted away, Jack shrugged nearly noiselessly. "It's another option, anyways. I got you passports for a variety of nationalities, along with about ten thousand in untraceable cash. You could go anywhere – make a truly new start away from the US, the surveillance, the 'Gate—"
Jon interrupted. "You know that doesn't solve anything important."
Jack sighed. "I know. It's just…" He trailed off into silence, his eyes tracing the paths of the dust motes drifting inevitably downwards in the last golden rays of sunlight bravely trickling through the tiny, dirty window.
Jon silently reached out and replaced the forged passports in the manila envelope, adding the bundles of cash before resealing the flap and depositing the whole on Jack's side of the table. "Keep your money, Jack," was all he said, slowly standing, the movement creating a sufficient disturbance in the room's still air to make the dust motes abruptly dance.
The grey-haired man stood silently too, regarding his younger counterpart solemnly before picking up the envelope and tucking it back inside his jacket as he moved across the room. Jon watched him replace his sunglasses, the hands, despite their scars and wrinkles, moving gracefully towards the doorknob. Just as the fingers touched it, he broke the silence for a final time. "Jack," he said, waiting until the man paused, listening, "Thanks."
He got a nearly imperceptible nod from the back of the silver head before Jack opened the door, his frame nearly completely filling in the gap between door and frame as he moved through the entry-way, closing the door to the grey and barren apartment silently behind him.
It took them five days before they showed up at the SGC wanting to talk to him. Of course, he acknowledged, he had visited Jon on a Friday, so the boy had nowhere to be for the next two days – nothing to indicate that something had changed. He knew why they were there, even as he got called to the General's office. It hadn't taken long for word to spread about the unknown officers within the SGC and he had been expecting it for days.
"General?" he inquired as he stepped into Hammond's office, his gaze raking over the other two men present noting their ranks and attitudes.
"Jack." Hammond's gaze was heavy, as if he was wondering how to break the news to his 2IC, and maybe, Jack acknowledged, wondering just how alike Jack and his clone were. "These gentlemen were part of the team that was responsible for monitoring Jon's environment for possible security leaks and an NID threat." Inwardly, Jack snorted. Monitoring the environment his ass. "They came here today because their efforts are no longer needed." Hammond paused, as if he expected Jack to comment, but the Colonel simply held the General's gaze and allowed him to continue. "Jack, it is believed that your clone – Jon O'Neill – shot himself dead at approximately 20:00 hours this past Friday. According to the investigation's final report, it was a clear case of suicide, committed using a Beretta 92FS, a gun which is registered in your name."
"Our name, sir," came Jack's reply, as he evenly met the eyes of his commanding officer. "Jon knows everything I do, sir, he could have easily obtained the firearm from my house."
Hammond paused again, a slow nod acknowledging Jack's point. The other officers said nothing, seemingly content to simply wait and see what path Hammond would take. After a brief hesitation, the General clearly came to a conclusion, and cleared his throat before continuing. "Jack," and the tone of Hammond's voice indicated his discomfort with what was to follow, "Off the record, do you believe that the investigation's conclusion is correct?"
Jack paused, debating how to answer the real question: Would you, Jack O'Neill, have committed suicide under those circumstances? He didn't see the point in diverting energy, effort, and funds to a continued investigation, not when there were more important things to be focusing on, but neither did he want the General to have any doubts about his own stability and his ability to lead his team. "General, there has only been one time in my life where I have ever considered giving it all up." He paused, giving the General a chance to reflect on the circumstances leading to his first trip to Abydos. "That said, sir, it is extremely unlikely anyone other than Jon could have successfully obtained entrance to my house and removed my gun without me noticing. Furthermore, if someone had tried to kill him, there would have been a struggle, sir, and he has the training to do considerable damage to any assailant." He shrugged, as if to say the conclusion was inevitable. "I think, sir, that the investigation's conclusion must be correct."
Jack waited as Hammond considered his response, scrutinizing him closely for any signs of deception, any hint of nervousness, and indication of doubt. The General obviously found nothing, as Jack had known he would, and with a firm nod, Hammond shut the file in front of him, standing up behind his desk. "Thank you, Jack, for your time. I'll let you know if any further details become available. Dismissed." And with that the General turned his attention to the men who remained standing in his office, letting Jack leave quietly.
O'Neill slipped out of the General's office, silently closing the door behind him in a scene reminiscent of one that took place five days ago. This time, however, a slight smile replaced the look of grim resolve on the man's face, and he gave a slight nod as he cast his gaze upwards in acknowledgement of his counterpart who had made a decision that Jack understood and agreed with, even if the rest of the people in his world would not. With that final gesture, Jack strode off down the hall, hands in his pockets, silver head bowed under the harsh fluorescent lighting that illuminated the military-grey halls.