He's back at the base now, his duty done for another year, the hate
overshadowed by guilt, the guilt overshadowed by relief because he made it
through, had to make it through. Now he doesn't have to go back for
another year, fifty two weeks, three hundred and sixty five days, when he
can put it at the back of his mind, and only think about it when he wakes
screaming at four in the morning, or when he looks in the mirror and hates
what he sees. Until then, he can forget.
Or he can pretend he does. He's gotten good at pretending.
He sits in the office he truly doesn't think of as being his, with the comfy leather chair and the all important bat-phone on the desk, and the litre of whisky resting with its solitary glass in the top right-hand desk drawer. The office may not truly be his, will always be Hammond's in his mind, but still, it is his home as much as any other. He spends more time here than he does in the anonymous two up, two down shell he bought after he could no longer stand the thought of her, of them, sitting on his old couch, watching hockey, drinking beer, talking, laughing.
Betraying him with every breath and every smile.
Now he puts in eighteen hour days, and most of that is for paperwork, all piles of bullshit that land on his desk with annoying regularity, and that he just wants to put in the shredder straight away, but he can't because that was the old Jack, and this is the all singing, all dancing new General Jack, who doesn't do things like that. General Jack, who drinks whisky instead of beer, who talks instead of fights, and who gets to speak to the man with his finger on the big red button at least once a month.
He deserves to be miserable, so that's what he is.
He picks a file at random from the pile on the desk, flicks through it without really seeing the pages. Puts it down again with a snap and a sigh. Longs to be neck deep in Goa'uld, ankle deep, hell, even toe deep would do. Anything but on this base, on this day, with this life.
Then, almost at once, he remembers the saying about being careful what you wish for.
The klaxons have just gone off.
************
In control now, in command, the weight of memories forcibly shoved aside, the albatross sinking 'like lead into the sea' as he strides through to the Command Centre, moving to stand behind the Tech whose fingers dance over the computer keyboard, eyes fixed nervously to the screen. "We have Off- world activation. Incoming traveller." The sirens are making a banshee wail in his ear, a wall of noise that fills his head, and he makes a slit throat gesture with his hand, and almost immediately they are dampened, silenced. Now he can hear himself think, he follows the Book to the letter, and asks the question he already knows the answer to. "Anyone due back?"
"Negative, Sir. Only SG9 and 11 are off-world, and they're not due until tomorrow." The Tech's hands are shaking now, the adrenaline rush filling his bloodstream. "Lock it up." The seventh and final chevron clunks into place, and for a moment the air is alive with a rush of colour, movement, sound, as the infinite porthole opens. There is hardly time to marvel at the wonder of it, before the translucent surface is covered by the heavy metal iris, the shield against the might of the universe.
For a moment there is silence except the humming of the machines. He has the urge to drop something, just to see how high he can make the Tech jump, but then he remembers that this is meant to be serious, this is meant to be It, the whole enchilada, life or death, and he really can't decide which one he dreads the most.
Beeping interrupting his train of thought, the Tech's shoulders relaxing slightly, although you could still string a piano wire between them, as he announces what a glance at the computer screen has already confirmed. "Sir, we're receiving an incoming transmission. It's the Tok'ra."
He's saying "Open it up" even as he walks out of the door. He heads towards the Gate room to meet his visitors, because he's a diplomat now, and he can kiss ass with the best of them, but more than that because he wants to know what the hell they want, and how long they can stay, a barrier of distraction between him and his memories, and the Ghost of Four Years Past who follows in his every footstep like a shadow.
He makes it to the bottom of the ramp just as the first traveller comes through, the surface of the Stargate rippling like water.
Jacob. It hits him in the stomach, the air rushing from his lungs as he sees the man he once so jokingly, seriously, jokingly called Dad step through the Gate. Right at that moment he begins to wish that he had screwed being a diplomat and retired instead, where he could watch hockey all day and look at the stars all night, and not have to avoid eyes that glow and familiar gestures that scream at him with her voice. Jacob opens his mouth to say something, a greeting, a warning? but doesn't even get the words out before the next travellers arrive.
Jack stands and wonders how the sound of his world collapsing could be so quiet.
There's a dead man in the room with him.
And he's breathing.
Or he can pretend he does. He's gotten good at pretending.
He sits in the office he truly doesn't think of as being his, with the comfy leather chair and the all important bat-phone on the desk, and the litre of whisky resting with its solitary glass in the top right-hand desk drawer. The office may not truly be his, will always be Hammond's in his mind, but still, it is his home as much as any other. He spends more time here than he does in the anonymous two up, two down shell he bought after he could no longer stand the thought of her, of them, sitting on his old couch, watching hockey, drinking beer, talking, laughing.
Betraying him with every breath and every smile.
Now he puts in eighteen hour days, and most of that is for paperwork, all piles of bullshit that land on his desk with annoying regularity, and that he just wants to put in the shredder straight away, but he can't because that was the old Jack, and this is the all singing, all dancing new General Jack, who doesn't do things like that. General Jack, who drinks whisky instead of beer, who talks instead of fights, and who gets to speak to the man with his finger on the big red button at least once a month.
He deserves to be miserable, so that's what he is.
He picks a file at random from the pile on the desk, flicks through it without really seeing the pages. Puts it down again with a snap and a sigh. Longs to be neck deep in Goa'uld, ankle deep, hell, even toe deep would do. Anything but on this base, on this day, with this life.
Then, almost at once, he remembers the saying about being careful what you wish for.
The klaxons have just gone off.
************
In control now, in command, the weight of memories forcibly shoved aside, the albatross sinking 'like lead into the sea' as he strides through to the Command Centre, moving to stand behind the Tech whose fingers dance over the computer keyboard, eyes fixed nervously to the screen. "We have Off- world activation. Incoming traveller." The sirens are making a banshee wail in his ear, a wall of noise that fills his head, and he makes a slit throat gesture with his hand, and almost immediately they are dampened, silenced. Now he can hear himself think, he follows the Book to the letter, and asks the question he already knows the answer to. "Anyone due back?"
"Negative, Sir. Only SG9 and 11 are off-world, and they're not due until tomorrow." The Tech's hands are shaking now, the adrenaline rush filling his bloodstream. "Lock it up." The seventh and final chevron clunks into place, and for a moment the air is alive with a rush of colour, movement, sound, as the infinite porthole opens. There is hardly time to marvel at the wonder of it, before the translucent surface is covered by the heavy metal iris, the shield against the might of the universe.
For a moment there is silence except the humming of the machines. He has the urge to drop something, just to see how high he can make the Tech jump, but then he remembers that this is meant to be serious, this is meant to be It, the whole enchilada, life or death, and he really can't decide which one he dreads the most.
Beeping interrupting his train of thought, the Tech's shoulders relaxing slightly, although you could still string a piano wire between them, as he announces what a glance at the computer screen has already confirmed. "Sir, we're receiving an incoming transmission. It's the Tok'ra."
He's saying "Open it up" even as he walks out of the door. He heads towards the Gate room to meet his visitors, because he's a diplomat now, and he can kiss ass with the best of them, but more than that because he wants to know what the hell they want, and how long they can stay, a barrier of distraction between him and his memories, and the Ghost of Four Years Past who follows in his every footstep like a shadow.
He makes it to the bottom of the ramp just as the first traveller comes through, the surface of the Stargate rippling like water.
Jacob. It hits him in the stomach, the air rushing from his lungs as he sees the man he once so jokingly, seriously, jokingly called Dad step through the Gate. Right at that moment he begins to wish that he had screwed being a diplomat and retired instead, where he could watch hockey all day and look at the stars all night, and not have to avoid eyes that glow and familiar gestures that scream at him with her voice. Jacob opens his mouth to say something, a greeting, a warning? but doesn't even get the words out before the next travellers arrive.
Jack stands and wonders how the sound of his world collapsing could be so quiet.
There's a dead man in the room with him.
And he's breathing.