The Road Home
By Icarus
No one at the SGC ever thought he'd retire.
No, for all the threats and complaints and the times he swore he was "gonna blow this popsicle stand" to spend the next twenty years fishing, General O'Neill was always back again for more.
"Yeah well," he'd tell everyone. "Someone has to keep Daniel out of trouble." Never mind that SG-1 had been restricted to non-combat duty for years, ostensibly to make the best use of Dr. Jackson's linguistic skills (though everyone knew O'Neill had more injuries than half the SGC combined). O'Neill said simply, his hand slicing the air, "When he retires, I retire. Got that? Otherwise, no dice."
Then Dr. Jackson won his grant for a three-year archeological dig on a cleared world. A "real" dig, with careful methods on a valuable find.
Amazingly, O'Neill kept his word.
Still it came as no great surprise that when the General hung up his uniform, his black bomber jacket and silver hair became a familiar sight as he poked around the SGC, harassing the troops. O'Neill's official title was 'Consulting Liaison' for the OIA, the agency responsible for reverse engineering off-world technology - mostly weapons. Between bites at the farewell dinner he'd called his job "sniffing for new toys. They just want my security clearance. I don't understand a word of what those dweebs with the, uh, pocket-protectors say -"
"Then you should feel right at home," Dr. Jackson had quipped, casting a warm smile at him across the table as he stirred food around on his plate. Rumor had it that Dr. Jackson was the one who'd pushed for his retirement.
O'Neill had just ignored him. "- but they get all excited." He'd pointed with his fork. "I only hope they're paper-trained, because, you know -- cleaning up piddle? Not in the job description."
The fact that he was jazzed by off-world technology wasn't lost on anyone.
General O'Neill peered around a wall of lockers as the exhausted SG-27 stripped down. They were still covered in off-world grit, dropping gear in a tired clatter.
"Hey! Be careful with that thing," he snapped at Andrews. They squirmed and fought the urge to stand. "Do you have any idea what this shit costs? It's obscene."
It was hard not to salute the man who'd trained them. Even if he was a civilian now, and the complete son of a bitch who'd said they'd never make it in the Stargate program.
"Yes sir," Andrews grinned, bright smile white against dark skin. He carefully set his zat gun on the bench.
"Thank you." He breathed a sarcastic sigh of relief. The General folded his arms as he leaned against a locker. "So. Get shot at by anything... interesting... lately?"
Yep. That was General O'Neill through and through. He always went straight to the soldiers on the ground, never mind reports and official channels.
SG-27 laughed, pulling t-shirts over their heads, kicking off grimy boots, their dogtags jingling. Two or three lockers slammed, though no one left for the showers yet. They weren't supposed to tell him anything, it was supposed to vetted first, but somehow they all competed to dig up intel for the General. The man was a legend.
"Yeah," Thilhousie answered, "but it's a little hard to fit in your pocket. Big as one of those pyramids." He sketched the shape in midair.
"Shooting at you?" The General's eyebrows raised, impressed, with an edge of irritation and concern. "They had you up against something that big? What was it - one of those ground-to-orbit 'sky canons'?"
"No sir. Bigger than that."
The General scowled.
Yeah, and that's why they talked to him. You could be sure if anyone at the SGC was doing something stupid, General Hammond would hear about it, ASAP.
"Who's your CO?"