Blue Jello

(Angsty Jello. Again, you've been warned.)

"So—are we still doing this?"

"Doing what?"

Daniel nodded downward to the plastic bag dangling from Jack's fingers. "That."

Jack punched the button on the elevator again. He used the long finger, this time. The middle one. As if he could make the contraption go faster by being rude to it. "Apparently."

Frowning, Daniel pursed his lips. Then, he did that thing where he peered over the tops of his glasses' frames. It took him two floors to finally ask. "Why?"

But before Jack felt compelled to answer, the elevator lurched to a halt. He moved closer to the doors and waited for them to open. General elevator etiquette dictated that those disembarking got to go first, but Jack had taken to going first regardless.

He considered that to be General general elevator etiquette. His stars gave him permission to do lots of things.

Except for the things that really mattered.

Nobody was waiting on the opposite side of the doors, a fact for which Jack was grateful. It meant that he could get out even faster. Switching the bag to his other hand, he took the hallway in long, impatient strides. He'd intended escape—from Daniel and his questions. From his own choices and their consequences. From that look that his oldest and best friend had taken to giving him lately. That look that told Jack that he was simultaneously insane and pitiful.

Usually, Jack could get away by ducking into random rooms and claiming to be late for nonexistent meetings. But escape didn't seem to be on today's menu.

Because naturally, this stretch of corridor was bereft of random doors. And, unsurprisingly, Daniel's long legs carried the archaeologist right back into step with him.

Damn it.

"Jack?"

"What, Daniel?"

Daniel indicated the bag again with a scathingly pointed look. "Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

To be honest, Jack had asked himself that same question over the past several months. Why? Why did he continue to do the things he did? Why did he persist in endeavors that others would most likely see as ridiculous? And those questions didn't even bring her into the equation.

Her.

Why did he give her the leeway he did? The almost-automatic permission to do whatever crazy-ass thing she felt necessary? Why extend her such latitude? Why the hell was that soft spot he'd always harbored getting softer rather than toughening up?

Why the hell did he linger when she'd oh-so-clearly moved on?

"It makes no sense to keep this up." Daniel's voice carried a twinge of something—sadness? poignancy? pain?—something that begged for an answer better than the ones he'd heretofore been given. "Jack—"

"Mumpsimus."

Teal'c had given Jack a Word of the Day calendar for Christmas a few months ago. It was currently sitting on the desk in his office right next to his Gameboy. It was one of those little square ones with pages that you ripped off each day. Knowing Jack's penchant for grammar and his approbation for all things lexical, Teal'c had chosen the gift with discernment and prudence.

Jack had looked forward to uncovering each new word. He'd even set a goal of using the word in conversation at least once on the day it appeared on a little square page. Until a few weeks ago when he'd torn off the preceding day to find this word staring at him. He hadn't torn any pages since.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Mumpsimus?" Daniel was trying to place it. "Latin, obviously."

For some reason, Jack had always imagined there to be a useful family of squirrels inhabiting Daniel's cranium. They were the keepers of knowledge—librarian-like critters that would scamper back into the deepest recesses of Daniel's mind and dig up useless bits of historic dross. At this moment, Jack could practically see every one of Daniel's squirrels tittering around inside his oversaturated noggin. Searching.

Jack narrowed his eyes as he answered. He didn't want to give the rodents too much of a head start. "Sort of."

"What does it mean?"

"This." Jack stopped at the commissary entrance and wiggled the bag around a little. "It means this."

But Daniel was getting all linguistical. "Sounds like 'sumpsimus'."

"Daniel—"

The squirrels apparently worked quickly—his friend had already figured it out. Damn him and that oversaturated noggin. And damn the rodents, too. Little traitors.

"It's that priest thing, isn't it? Sixteenth or seventeenth century priest mispronounces a word during Eucharist and stubbornly insists that he hadn't said anything wrong. 'Mumpsimus' in place of 'sumpsimus'." He squinted down at the plastic bag still hanging from Jack's hand. "The new word eventually becomes a noun describing the phenomenon of persisting in an action even when it makes no sense to do so."

Jack breathed once—twice—before answering. "There you go."

Daniel folded his arms, leaning back against the door jamb. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it only just reached across the space between them. "You can't keep doing this, Jack. She's going to get married, and you need to move on."

"I know."

And he did. Logically, he knew that Daniel was right. Carter was going to marry Pete Shanahan and carry on with her life. Why he hadn't taken strides to get on with his own life wasn't a mystery. It was just painful. Not to mention difficult. And a little shameful. He needed to expunge whatever it was that kept him shackled to the hopes of the past. Let go. Purge.

It was just that some shrapnel was buried so deep that digging it out did more damage than just living with it.

"Jack—"

"I know, Daniel."

"You know I'm here for you."

"I know that, too."

Pushing away from the door, Daniel glanced into the mess. "Well, she's in there, so I'm going to go say hello before I head on home."

"You do that."

Jack watched as Daniel passed through the doors and made his way through the maze of tables until he'd gotten to the one where a familiar blonde was sitting. She was chatting with Teal'c, Felger, and a few other scientists he recognized, but whose names he couldn't recall. She didn't even notice when Jack crossed the threshold and headed for the kitchens.

One of the perks of being the Man was that nobody questioned why you were anywhere on base. Jack passed around the far end of the food service line and into the food preparation area without comment, stopping near the storage racks next to the huge industrial freezers.

"Sir." Laurents emerged from his offices just as Jack had started unloading the contents of his bag. "Good to see you."

"Inventory's down, Chief." Jack nodded at the rack. Master Chief Laurents had been at the Mountain nearly as long as Jack had. He'd been the one who'd had to break the bad news that their food supplier had stopped carrying certain items in bulk. Bow-tie pasta, canned carrots, and—lamentably—Berry Blue Gelatin mix. While he hadn't been able to resolve the farfalle and root vegetable issues, Jack had been able to rectify one shortage. He'd been quietly taking care of the gelatin crisis for nearly six years. The Air Force happily paid for the red, orange, and green Jell-o, but blue came straight out of Jack's pocket. "I just thought I'd re-up the supply."

"We were running a little low." The section chief shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his omnipresent apron. "But then, she hasn't been going through it as quickly as she usually does."

"Huh." Jack paused, considering that bit of information. "Wonder why."

"She told someone at the front that she was trying to eat cleaner."

Jack put the last box on the rack and then wadded up the bag. Sticking it in the bucket meant for such items, he frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Dunno, Sir." Laurents shook his head. "Doesn't get much cleaner than Jell-o."

"Right? Sugar-free."

"Non-fat." The Master Sergeant nodded towards the tidy stack of boxes on the shelf. "If you can get past the whole 'boiled-down horse bits' part of the ingredients list."

Well, naturally. Jack's frown deepened. "Huh."

"Maybe it's for the wedding, Sir."

It was O'Neill's turn to stick his hands into his pockets. "What do you mean?"

"My little sister's best friend is getting married about the same time as the Colonel, and she and her entire bridal party are doing a juice cleanse for the whole week before the wedding." Laurents scratched at a spot next to his ear. "It's supposed to flush toxins out of the body. Janie—that's the best friend—says that she wants to start married life toxin-free."

Jack scowled down at his boots. What the hell did that even mean? Toxin-free. As if people just walked around leaking hazardous waste or spontaneously erupting into noxious fumes. He assumed what he hoped was a careless posture and shrugged. "Who knows?"

"Right, Sir." Laurents smiled. "Who the hell knows?"

"Exactly."

"Well, anyway, Sir." Laurents nodded, smiling. "It's always a pleasure to have you visit us here in the galley. But I've gotta get started on the dinner menu."

"Then I won't keep you." Jack nodded back, then retraced his steps back through the prep area and stopped at the edge of the service line.

They were still there, Daniel included. Despite his earlier declaration about heading home, Jackson was smack dab in the midst of things, laughing as Felger's girlfriend—Clovis? Lois? Cola?—recounted something that Jack presumed to be science-y. Carter giggled right along. Obviously, it had been quite the tale. Her smile was still the most beautiful thing that Jack had ever seen.

Shrapnel. Beautiful shrapnel.

Pacing around the edge of the mess, he stopped at the drinks station and drew himself a cup of coffee. Blowing into the steaming, dark brew, he added sugar and a dram of cream before turning to peruse his domain.

Well—not his domain, per se, but his people. At least, they had been his people at one point. Not so long ago, he'd have been at that table, pretending to understand whatever had so amused the rest of them. Trying not to let everyone know that he really only gave a damn that one of them was enjoying herself.

He'd forgotten a stirrer, but it didn't matter. Jack swished his coffee back and forth in the mug before taking a tentative sip. No amount of futzing was going to put lipstick on that caffeinated pig. Sludge was sludge.

"General!"

Felger had seen him. Standing half-way, the physicist was flailing an arm in Jack's direction in what could either have been a new dance move or an invitation.

And since there was no music playing—

Jack seriously considered simply walking away. He was the boss. It wouldn't be at all out of character for him to offer a simple wave and head back into his dungeon where he could pretend to labor—um—laboriously. He'd done it before.

But for some reason, he nodded, instead. And then, he was walking through the mess until he'd arrived at the table. Ridiculously, he was trying to appear happy about it.

Sam and the little blond engineer—Lotus? Cletus? What the hell was her name?—were the only ones with food still in front of them. Sam's tray still held half a sandwich and the dregs of a side salad, while a plateful of congealing pasta sat in front of the engineer. This shindig had probably started with them lunching together. Teal'c's place at the table was punctuated with a selection of neatly-stacked plates and several empty water bottles. Felger was toying with a ginormous bottle of soda, while the rest of them had only cups of coffee or tumblers of some other beverage in front of them.

"How are we doing today, General Sir?"

They'd had this discussion before, but Jack apparently needed to have it again. "It's either General or Sir, Felger. You don't need to use both."

"Ah. Gotcha." He nodded, beaming. "I'll try to remember that, Sir."

"In fact," Jack sipped at his sludge. "You don't have to call me Sir at all, Doctor. You aren't military, so those rules don't really apply to you."

"Jay just wants to show you all due deference, Sir." The little doctor—damn it, what was her name?-Chloe! Chloe passed a smile between her boyfriend and the General. "You know as well as I do that he's always been your biggest fan."

Well, that was icky. Jack tried to look appeased, but he was fairly certain that he just ended up appearing nauseated.

"What are you doing here, Sir?" Carter leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. "I thought you had a meeting this afternoon. Someone from Washington."

"Langley, actually." Jack went back to swishing. "I've got a few minutes, still."

"Oh." She picked up a spoon that sat, unused, on her tray and fiddled with it. The diamonds on her left hand glimmered in the fluorescent overhead lighting. "Well, pull up a chair. You're welcome to join us."

"Yeah." Daniel smiled up at him. "We're just shooting the breeze. Having a little fun."

Jack considered it—for the scarcest of moments—before shaking his head. He raised his cup as if in tribute. "It's all good. I got what I came for."

"No dinner tonight, Sir?" Carter tapped the spoon against her palm. "I didn't see you have any lunch, either."

"No jello tonight, Colonel?" He hadn't meant to say it. It had emerged as banter. Automatic, easy—thoughtless, really—just as they'd been gently teasing each other for eight long years.

A hint of confusion swam across her features, her eyes going a shade darker. "Um, no. Not today. Pete and I are trying to cut out junk food. You know—before—"

"Before the blessed nuptials." Felger laughed. He was pleased with himself for getting the answer right. "A wise endeavor. Cleans out the toxins."

"Ah." Jack gritted out another smile. Or half of one—he only felt part of his face comply. "I wasn't aware that jello was junk food."

"Gelatin has very little nutritional value." Chloe offered this. "And it's made out of hooves and stuff."

Again, Jack resorted to the classic monosyllabic, "Ah." It was the best he could do.

"You sure you won't join us, Jack?" Daniel squinted up at him, his face carefully bland.

"Nah. You guys have your fun. I'd better get going." He raised his cup again and stepped back, angling past the neighboring table and towards the door.

This time, he did have to wait at the elevator—a pair of SG teams heading to the mess had to exit before he could enter—but it was smooth sailing the rest of the way to his office. He settled the now-cool mug on his desk and took his seat. It was quiet, but for the drone of the fan in his computer tower, and the omnipresent hum of background HVAC systems. That was the one thing he'd enjoyed about being the Boss. His office was nice and secluded. More lair than workspace. Or a cave. Someplace where he could go to hibernate, and nobody dared poke that particular bear without a damned good reason.

Next to his Gameboy sat the calendar, and Jack reached out to pick it up.

Mumpsumis. (n) Latin, 16th Century

The act of adhering to traditional or archaic notions even though they are unreasonable.

A person who stubbornly clings to traditions regardless of appropriateness or suitability.

Jack flipped the page upwards, glancing at the word featured on the following day. Flagrant.

The next. Caustic. He thumbed past a few more pages. Fortuitous. Defenestration. He shoved a few more days upwards and read again. Gumption.

With his thumb, he found the most current page—matching the date with the one on his calendar. Yanking the paper upwards, he read the word there.

Shrapnel.

Well, hell.

Securing the calendar with one hand, he ripped the intervening pages off in one large stack. It felt like a relief, somehow, as if he'd started something that he'd been putting off for far too long. Like that cleansing thing that Sergeant Laurents had been talking about, only without the juice.

It was time, wasn't it? Time to do what Daniel had been nagging him to do. Time to let it go. Shake it out. Move on. Cut out the shrapnel that he'd been allowing to fester. The signs couldn't have been more clear, could they? It was right there—literally written in front of him. Emblazoned on the little square calendar on his desk.

A knock at his door had him looking up just as a head peeked around the opening. Female. Dark curls, pretty face—lively eyes that immediately took in the calendar in his hand and the wad of paper in the other.

"I can never keep up with those things." The pretty face grinned. "My mother gives me one every year for Christmas, and I always end up ripping off weeks at a time because I just forget it day to day."

"It's a great idea in theory."

"But perhaps not in execution." She tossed her hair, pushing the door wider and easing the rest of her through. "It seems to require purpose of thought and attention to detail."

"Attributes which I seem to possess in lamentably minute quantities."

The woman adjusted the strap of a large briefcase on her shoulder and moved towards the desk. "I'm here for a meeting with General O'Neill. Since this is his office, I'm assuming that you are he."

"I am, indeed, he." Jack stood, catching her hand as she extended it. "And you are?"

"Senior Investigations Officer." Her hand was soft, but strong. She held his a little longer than necessary before releasing it and stepping back. "I'm here from the Central Intelligence Agency."

"Ah." Jack gestured towards one of the chairs opposite his desk. "Have a seat."

"Thanks." She grabbed the arm of one of the chairs and dragged it closer to the desk. "Do you mind? I hate balancing all my crap on my lap. It would be amazing if I could borrow a corner of your workspace."

"Sure." He watched as she pulled items out of the bag—pencils, a digital recorder, a couple of yellow legal pads. When she finally had everything arranged to her satisfaction, she situated the chair just so and lowered herself to sit. Only then did the General sink into his own chair.

She was pretty. Really pretty. And he was a General, but he was also a guy, and he couldn't help but notice that she was rounded in all the right places. And kind of hot. And she kept looking up at him from under her eyelashes as if she were trying to sneak glances without letting him know that she was sneaking glances. Flustered, maybe. Kind of like she was trying to decide whether she wanted to—flirt with him?

His eyes wandered from the interesting things happening in front of his desk to the calendar sitting on top of it. Shrapnel.

And in his hand, the page on top of the stack still clutched between his fingers.

Mumpsimus.

It hurt, a little, as he leaned over and tilted his hand towards the trash can. As if he'd started digging at the shards still festering beneath the surface. Like he'd begun the process of detoxifying—as mystifying as that still seemed. He actually felt a rush of something indefinable—sorrow, maybe, or grief—as he tossed the stack into the garbage. The sound of it hitting the plastic bag inside his receptacle pierced something deep inside him. Regret. That was it. Regret.

But it was time. Right?

Right?

"You know my name." Jack indicated the framed brass plate on his desk with a nod. "But you still haven't told me yours."

"Oh, criminy, I'm an idiot." She laughed. Melodic, self-deprecating. "Kerry. Kerry Johnson."

Let it go, Daniel had said. Move on.

Well, okay then.

He was doing this.

It was time.