The Road Home - part 2

By Icarus

It was startling to see someone in civilian clothes in the Control Room, and even more surprising to realize that that was General O'Neill leaning entirely too close to a digital read-out. Evan's eyes widened. Soldiers near delicate equipment set his teeth on edge.

The cup of coffee in O'Neill's hand dangled precariously as he chatted with one of the old timers.

Susan at the MALP controls read her new supervisor's mind and murmured, "General O'Neill's here every Friday night."

O'Neill glanced up at the sound of his name. Nothing wrong with his hearing, that was for sure. "Relax. I haven't broken anything in days. Weeks even."

The coffee cup was empty, and Evan felt his shoulders relax. A little. O'Neill turned back to his conversation. What was he doing here?

"Do you miss it?" Susan chirped, snagging the General's attention again.

"Huh? Nah." O'Neill made a face, then tried to take a sip of his coffee, with a startled scowl at the cup. He looked up and took in all the doubtful expressions around with a quick glance. "All right. Maybe a little. But it's not like how it was. We used to not know what was on the other side there. The MALP was more than just a precaution -- it was a necessity. And it still didn't help much." He seemed to notice what panel she manned and added quickly, brushing the air with an off-handed gesture, "No offense."

Her response was drowned out by the squall of the klaxon, and everyone turned their attention to their jobs, headphones on, eyes to the read-outs. Evan hovered over his staff as their fingers flew, making split-second adjustments. This was probably the only excitement they were going to see all weekend.

The iris slowly opened.

"SG-32," someone read the GDO signal, and O'Neill sat up. The seventh chevron engaged.

The whoosh of the Stargate never failed to take the breath away. Everyone looked up, then quickly busied themselves at the consuls. Blue light danced about O'Neill's face as he watched the gate hungrily, hands leaning on a rail.

A ragged team of archeologists stepped through the event horizon, with the wince of people who'd just come from a very quiet place into chaos. Last to arrive was Dr. Jackson. The gate shut off in a flash behind him.

O'Neill was already clanking down the metal steps two at a time.

The SFs let him through as though this were routine, and the General strode into the gate room pointing to his watch.

"Nice of you to finally show up. I've been waiting here for over an hour!"

Dr. Jackson pulled off his gloves and caked mud crumbled to the platform; dust caught the light in faint swirls about him. He looked like he was probably tanned under the dirt, his hair bleaching to blond from the sun. In February.

"Good to see you too, Jack."

O'Neill approached, then backed up a step.

"Phew!" He held a palm out to keep Dr. Jackson at arm's length. "Don't you ever bathe on that planet?"

"Well, which would you dig first: the latrine, or the showers?"

"Yeah you smell like you've been bathing in the latrine."

"This is nothing. I once went three weeks --"

O'Neill backed away, sing-songing, "Doooon't wanna hear about it...."

"-- and we didn't have toilet paper either."

"Now there's a detail I didn't need to know." O'Neill swiped at his nose. "It's like this putrid wave just... radiating off you."

"You get used to some primitive conditions," Dr. Jackson responded calmly. Though his assistants at the bottom of the ramp didn't stand very close either.

"Okay, Tarzan. Let's reintroduce you to the pleasures of civilization."

Dr. Jackson's eyebrows raised, prurient and smug. "Hmm, really?"

"Don't be cute. You're gonna start with a shower." O'Neill led the way to the locker rooms. Dr. Jackson held the door. "'Cause you're not getting into my truck smelling like two weeks of dead socks. Or live ones either."

Evan's nagging curiosity was answered later when O'Neill sheepishly returned for a black bomber jacket left draped across a chair. Dr. Jackson trailed behind him, hair still spiky and wet.

"Uh. Yeah," Dr. Jackson answered him, rubbing the back of his neck like he had a headache. "Jack gives me a ride home every week." Dr. Jackson gave O'Neill a cautious glance; then continued at his shrug. "I sold my car -- well, technically, Jack sold my car."

"It was an Isuzu," O'Neill sneered, as if that explained everything.

"It was fuel efficient. But since I was hardly driving anyway, it seemed sort of, oh, wasteful."

"I told him when he bought the thing it was a piece of shit." O'Neill shook his head.

"One flat tire doesn't make it a beater, Jack."

"I had to lie to sell it," Jack announced to the control room crew. "Lie, lie, lie; 'oh nooooo, my grandmother only drove it to church on Sundays.' Not Speed Racer here." He indicated Dr. Jackson with a jerk of his head.

Dr. Jackson sighed. "Speed limits are a matter of principle," he said with a strangled patience that Evan was already starting to understand. "The purpose of the law is to avoid accidents, so people don't drive faster than they can manage or conditions allow. Tickets are just meant to raise money for highways. Either way, we're fine. If I'm pulled over -- I've made my contribution to society. I'm perfectly comfortable at high speeds."

"Well, I'm not. Not with you behind the wheel. And the point of the law is that it's the law." It had the ring of an old argument. Evan followed it like a tennis match.

"Laws exist for a reason," Dr. Jackson shook his head, "you have understand the motive or the law itself becomes meaningless --" O'Neill rolled his eyes. "-- Look, the state wants people to drive fast. The technology has existed for decades to make it impossible for cars to go more than seventy. So... why do you think they don't legislate it?"

O'Neill brushed at the air. "Yeah, well, there's something really wrong with a guy who drives a shitty car ninety miles an hour. If you're gonna drive like that, Daniel, get a Camaro or something."

"Or a truck?" Dr. Jackson grinned at him, impish. O'Neill gave him a dirty look. "The Isuzu worked fine for me."

"It was an Isuzu." They waved good night to the bemused gateroom crew. O'Neill was pulling his jacket on as they left, continuing the argument as if he had to have the last word. "You know what I think we should have done with that car? Popped it through a wormhole: give it to the Gou'ald. Probably set their technology back nine hundred years.

"By-the-way. That idiot on SG-27's at it again."

"Jack. You don't work here any more."