Neighbors
By Livi2Jack
Summary: If an ordinary person could really have a conversation with Jack and he would actually answer for whatever reason, what would be the subject? Gives a new meaning to nosy neighbors.
Rating: Older Teens for subject matter and language
Category: Gen Humor, all out Fluff
Season 11+ spoilers (one could dream): including Season 10 of SG-1 and
SGA 3 because I can't keep it all straight.
Characters: Jack, Original Character, Team
Warnings: Language
Possible Series of one shots.
Author's note: One night on an instant message with Diane, I discussed the idea of actually meeting Jack. What would anyone say to him? What would he actually answer, assuming he would answer? Why would he answer? THANK YOU, DIANE!
DISCLAIMER: "Stargate SG-1/Atlantis" and its characters are the property of Sony Pictures, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Film Corp., Showtime/Viacom and USA Networks, Inc. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations and story are the property of the author(s), and may not be republished or archived elsewhere without the author's permission.
Prelude: A conversation with Jack.
It's not hard to say when we became chatty, all things considered.
The handsome silver-haired man moved in next door quietly one weekend without much fuss or fanfare. My family and I were away on one expedition or another to provision the house, fix the house, decorate the house, and clean the house… you name it. We were doing house stuff all day. We seem to spend so many weekends that way. I remember arguing once that we should live in a house not for a house.
The house won the argument.
I live in greater Metro Washington in one of those throwback neighborhoods where folks know each other. We make a point of knowing each other. It's the twenty first century and the 1950's are alive and kicking in these older areas. Here we stop to say hi on the evening dog walks. We chat about our gardens. We deplore the marine clay soil. We trade names of contractors to fix these old houses. We circulate a blacklist, which we label 'the Don't Call Sheet.' Once a month on the third Friday of every month, we get together for a potluck at one house or another. A group email goes out to remind us where. People sign up to host it a year in advance. We are a really together group of party animals.
In September, we also have the neighborhood block party in the cul de sac. Each household kicks in $25. Then, a few of the men rev up the bbqs and sling hot dogs and hamburgers. The committee orders a dozen pizzas. A few kegs are off on someone's lawn. Soft drinks, water, and wine chill in coolers. Everyone brings a dish. The neighborhood garage band assaults our ears. We also rent a jumping thingy for the kids who parade around on bicycles sporting the latest helmets and knee guards.
Heck when I was a kid we just fell down and skinned our knees, broke our arms, tore our pants, and went home crying to a mom who kissed us and made it all better. These days the kids on bikes look like linebackers at the Super Bowl. At least that's what I commented to the new guy. He was a quiet sort. Someone walked the September block party flyer around so he got one in his mail slot through the front door. Rumor has it the thing is never locked. We never did introduce ourselves before all hell broke loose.
We were standing by the keg when one of the kids crashed into another and totaled his bike on a trike. Screams and shouts made it look like a rush hour fender bender on the Capital Beltway. Over protective moms scooped up the kids to examine the damage at home. The fathers checked each other out to see if someone was going to sue. Satisfied, they went back to the keg or the bbqs or the sports scores knowing the women would fuss and feel needed.
I watched him.
He had to be military. No one scans a situation like that unless has had practice. I watched him tense. I saw the involuntary clench of the jaw. His fingers flexed without leaving his side. Yet, it was the deep-set eyes that kept my attention. Nothing at that gathering escaped him. He was pure Alpha Male.
It's a good thing I'm married. I have my own boy toy. Guys like that don't notice dumpy middle-aged women hot flashing from the sulfites in the wine. The doctor finally solved that mystery. I thought I was losing my mind. Menopause is bad enough, but the hot flashes are diabolical. Sulfites in wine make it worse. At a dinner party last winter, I literally rolled in the snow outside, thinking I would spontaneously combust. Yeah, quite a picture of a woman dressed in St. John, lying down on the front lawn pretending to make snow angels. I tell you, if men had this problem, they would have had a cure ten thousand years ago. I ruined a new pair of suede Ferragamos that night in the slush I made.
The neighbors are still talking about it.
"The Change of Life" has not improved my volatile yet sunny disposition. Feel sorry for my husband. Now I have an excuse for eruptions of my discontent. So at 3 am, I was freaking out on the cell phone to my friends in California 3 hours behind us. They are still up at midnight because the "Change" has gotten hold of a few of them, too. At least I have company of sorts at 3 am. Anyway, I was out on my deck over looking the backyard. There's a wooded lot behind the houses. I call it the 'back forty.' In there, I let the dog loose at 3 am when I'm too lazy to go out in the rain or the snow to walk him. Sure, it's illegal. Let that other insomniac the menopausal hellcat down the hill there yell at me for another round of tipped over trashcans. I say a fox or coyote did it.
It's my story and I'm sticking to it.
With this insomnia, I can go for days without sleep. Heck I can't sleep. Not content to have hot flashes, I was having night sweats so badly I thought the dog had slobbered on me. Hubby was down for the count, snoring so rhythmically I wondered how many trees he had sawed into logs. It was get up or shove a pillow down his throat. As long as I was up prowling the kitchen, the dog figured that there had to be something in it for him.
That night was the second time I saw him, the new neighbor man. I was prowling the kitchen looking for something to kill, disembowel, behead, or generally gut in my frustration over no sleep for the second night in a row. To cool off, I went outside in the cold October night, no Indian summer that year. I breathed some brisk fall snap in the air hoping for relief. Sure enough, he was out too. I guessed he couldn't sleep either. He was out on his deck with a telescope on that moonless night. He didn't see me at first. Although once the dog padded out, he barked. No one misses the deep barrel-chested bark of my hundred-pound beastie. That's his name, Beastie.
So sue me.
The bark startled him. He swung around to see my shadowy bulk. His alarm turned to annoyance. He moved his stuff away to the far side of the deck. He could have said hello. Screw him, I thought and let the dog out for his 3 am promenade. My yellow lab never lacks a sense of humor. He promptly went over to the man's yard and took a dump. Dang, couldn't he have done it ten feet away in the woods as usual? Of course, that man saw it. Nothing for it, I went inside for a quart-sized baggie to scoop it.
Well, as I bent down to gather the historic 10,000th Beastie crap, I heard a strange whine and then saw a flash of bright white light. That man disappeared right before my eyes. It was like some Star Trek thing. I saw him go. I saw the look of surprise. Apparently, he saw mine. The next thing I knew, I was standing in a hall.
There I was in all my glory: ratty purple bathrobe, aqua blue and jade green striped pajamas, and pink fuzzy slippers holding a baggie of dog shit. I wondered if he was staring at the color clash or at my Double D-sized breasts hanging freely down to my belly button underneath the robe. He was looking at the breasts. Men are such hound dogs.
I looked down to be sure nothing was exposed.
Definitely not the way you want to make the acquaintance of a Roswell Grey. I looked at it. It looked at me. I looked at the neighbor. He looked at me. They both saw the baggie of steaming dog excrement.
"Thor, you got a trash can or airlock or something for that?"
"What is it, O'Neill?"
"Um, you don't want to know. Just how do we get rid of it?"
"Is it dangerous?"
"It's nuclear dog poop," I sputtered too loudly. More words spewed out of my ladylike mouth. "Fresh and hot, too!"
Then I started laughing my head off. I've been told that laughter in some situations is the same as tears. I couldn't stop laughing. Not the reaction either one of them expected or quite knew what to do about. So my neighbor, "O'Neill," sidled up to me to relieve me of the swinging bag of poop. With two fingers, he set it down on the floor. The little Roswell activated something and an S-shaped object appeared. O'Neill picked it up and unloaded three electrical charges on it, making it disappear.
…...
I can't tell you why I had this sense of loss.
"So, Thor, what's she doing here?"
"I was concerned that she would have an adverse reaction to your transport and alert your news media."
"Thor, buddy, it's ok. They wouldn't believe her anyway. Send her back."
"I disagree, O'Neill." The little Roswell walked back to some recliner chair and sat down pressing buttons. "Already, too many people on Earth have actual knowledge of the program. Everyday, more people disclose the truth. It is only a matter of time now. Anyway, we are nearing our destination."
"Destination?" I felt some panic growing.
"O'Neill has an appointment he must keep. You will remain here. I have erected a force field to hold you in this room until we return shortly. You must not touch anything," he narrowed his eyes in menace. I blinked and looked at the neighbor for a clue. He shrugged.
"So how is an X-Files adventure going to keep the secret?" I looked to this man 'O'Neill' for some sign he would help me. "Besides, my dog is still loose."
O'Neill sighed out a heavy, 'oy.'
"He's pretty stupid about cars. By the way, my dog is epileptic. It's a defect in the breed. Labradors have that problem, especially the yellow ones." I was blathering. "And he'll tip over the trash cans of that bitch down the hill. He's a real garbage hound."
I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling exposed. Tears welled up. It's one of the problems I have these days. The hormones rage and ebb randomly. One moment I'm ready to do battle with the lawn service. Then next moment I'm a puddle of emotional goo. It is sooooooo not me. I take Premarin, but that's not the end all be all in this deal. O'Neill frowned, setting me off big time. I felt so stupid snuffling and sniveling.
Honestly, think about it from my point of view.
An alien abducted me via a Star Trek transporter! So cool!
But…
I just met a Roswell grey… while holding a bag of dog shit!
I wasn't wearing a bra.
I had no make up on.
My hair was a mess.
My epileptic dog was loose, running around the neighborhood, tipping over trashcans, eating garbage. I'm telling you he will have the runs for a week. If he didn't get hit by a car, he would probably throw up on the carpet again to boot.
To top it off, I was going to miss my monthly bridge game with the ladies in the neighborhood that morning if they didn't take me straight home. Now I'll miss this week's gossip.
I ask you. Standing there bra-less in your fuzzy pink slippers, wouldn't you cry, too?
"Oh for crying out loud, don't do…that."
He offered me his hanky. I blew and blew again.
"What's your name?"
"Libby…short for Elizabeth. What's yours?"
"General Jack O'Neill, ma'am, U.S. Air Force, Earth."
"Sure you are. So are you going to kill me?"
"What?" He seemed confused. "No, of course not, but we are going to have to have a little chat about all this."
I nodded still snuffling and blowing.
"But it will have to wait until my …appointment is done." He glared at the Roswell grey. "My buddy, Thor…Thor… Libby, my neighbor."
"Greetings Libby."
"Um, greetings." I looked back at O'Neill. "You do this often?"
"Sort of."
"Anyone else know?"
"A few."
"Any of them ours?"
"Yes," he grinned. I grinned a dopey grin back through the tears. "You're okay with all this?"
"Assuming you aren't going to experiment on me or throw me out an airlock… yeah."
"Cool."
"Way cool." I looked around. The place seemed under control, but you never know in sci-fi. "So, no demon jackalope going to kill us all?"
"Huh? Uh, no."
"What now?"
"We go wash our hands?"
"Right, bathroom?"
He looked to the Roswell, who pointed. Behind a panel, a door swung open. I looked inside. It looked like a normal bathroom. I looked back at the Roswell. These things were way too big for him without a booster seat. I had not seen any equipment on the little naked grey fella. Not my problem, so I went and closed the door realizing I had to pee something awful.
In the mirror, I ran my fingers through my hair. The gray was really showing. Shit! Why couldn't they come for me tomorrow after the hairdresser's? Ack! My fingernail polish was chipped, too. They must think I'm a cliché for the slovenly housewife who let herself go. Heck, I clean up ok but June Cleaver I'm not. Well there was nothing for it. It was what it was. Tossing my hair and tilting my head up, I came out. I'm president of the Garden Club after all. Honey, I learned a long time ago. If you are screwed, attitude can take you a long way.
I had no idea how far.
O'Neill exited another room next to mine, looking satisfied. Men! They always look great. Tall and fit, he was at ease in his white pants with the rolled up cuffs, black long sleeved t-shirt, and a leather jacket. He looked hot! We girls have to work so hard to push things into place. Speaking of which…
"General O'Neill, did I see him make one of those ray gun thingies?"
"Um, yes."
In a low voice, I asked, "Could he make me a bra? This is so embarrassing."
O'Neill went over to the little guy and said something. They looked at me trying to guess.
"38 Double D."
They whispered some more.
"I believe your correct size is a 40E."
Presto, one size 40 E bra appeared. I went over to it, touched it, and realized something.
"No bow."
"What?"
"No bow," I raised my eyebrows. "It won't work without the little bow. Humph."
I pointed to where it should be. This is a running joke between my husband and me. We decided that every bra has to have a little decorative bow in the middle or it won't work. I managed to confuse the two of them, stumped them good.
"Never mind," I huffed a little to show I wasn't intimidated. Picking it up with all the disdain I could manage, I went back to the bathroom with the substandard foundation garment.
Thank god for bras. When you are this well endowed, not wearing one hurts. Anyway, I couldn't admit I wasn't wearing any underwear beneath my pajama bottoms. It was all so embarrassing and surreal. To my horror when I came out, both of them were gone.
Imagine that, they left me alone in that big hall without so much as a by your leave. They probably thought a woman would take forever in the bathroom, then sit here afraid and cry. It was the hormones pal! Screw that, besides it gives me a headache along with a stuffy nose. So I looked around. Not a clue except for the consoles and the chair with all the buttons. I tried the chair but it was "toooooo small!" Yeah, me and Goldilocks. Believe me; I've seen enough science fiction shows to know there has to be voice-activated stuff. My cell phone is voice activated. Why not some of this? So I gave it a go.
"Computer, on."
"Computer."
"Computer, show me where we are in relationship to Earth."
A hologram appeared of the spiral arms of the galaxy. Big red arrows pointed to the two locations. Wow, we were out there!
"Computer, identify Thor and his job description."
"Thor is the Supreme Commander of the Asgard Fleet."
"Who are the Asgard?"
"A race of people originating on the planet of Hala in the galaxy of Ida."
"Who is General Jack O'Neill?"
"General Jack O'Neill is a career Air Force officer in charge of the United States' Department of Homeworld Security. He is presently assigned to the Pentagon in Washington, DC, planet Earth."
"Describe the purpose or mission statement of the Department of Homeworld Security."
The computer answered question after question. I became better at narrowly formulating each inquiry. By the end of the hour, I knew all about Stargate Command, the Stargates, the Goa'uld, the Replicators, the Asgaard, the Jaffa, the Antarctic Chair, and Atlantis.
Not bad for an old gal like me.
I only have two college degrees even if I was playing housewife the past couple of years. I spent a lifetime as a CPA doing audits and crunching numbers. Numbers and other data are mother's milk. Follow the money, that's my motto. You find out EVERYTHING.
Add to it all the fact my husband is a physicist and I had to listen to him for the past 24 years… (I gave up a year ago… we've been together for 25 but I can fake it now…) I should have a degree in Physics for non-physics majors. Presto, here I am and now the Asgard have a sci-fi buff doing a forensic audit on their sweet little alien computer bank.
By the time the two of them returned, I knew the annual budget for the IOA and the Department of Homeworld Security broken down by centers of operation. From that, I knew how many people were involved. I knew how many ships were in production. I knew budget variances to date. They really were blowing their budgets. I knew how the next year's budget requests had faired in the Senate Appropriations Committee. They're a bunch of cheap bastards considering what is at stake. So I knew how many more ships they wanted to build along with the new off world bases. This was great stuff!
I even discovered why the Vice President resigned abruptly. Sheesh. Talk about a pain in the neck.
With a virtual console, the computer taught me how the transporter activation and targeting sequence worked. Put the funny little rocks on the console in a certain position and poof… I'm Chief O'Brien and the Enterprise is real.
But the sweetest nugget of information I found out was that …I … little ole me… this is so way cool… I have the Ancient gene in spades.
Woo Hoo!
I think.
Now, what do I want?
Thor and his good buddy, 'O'Neill', returned in a flash of light. O'Neill set down the case he had acquired on his appointment with the Asgaard Science Council. Yes, I knew where he went and why but I wasn't ready to tell him I knew. He looked at me trying to decide where to begin.
How would any man begin staring at the pink fuzzy slippers? I had been so engrossed with the information I retrieved that I didn't bother to learn how to replicate myself a pair of Farragamos size 9B. Lord knows I deserved a treat after this little experience. I decided then and there, after this little tête-à-tête, someone was going to pay. That someone was my neighbor.
Let the games begin.