Passing Game
So there were days when he was able to completely ignore the fact that his life sucked.
Today was not one of those days.
This morning, he'd played around some, doing a cross word puzzle. He'd done the words wrong on purpose, hoping that she'd hang around and berate him a little about it.
It was amazing how pathetic he felt about it. Oh, he was choosing not to acknowledge it, but he knew that he was pathetic. It was like Ninth Grade—hanging around the girls' bathroom hoping to catch a glimpse of Cindy Ray Dyney. She'd worn the tiniest little miniskirts—and sometimes she dropped stuff.
See? Pathetic.
So, he still played the game. He still played the roles he'd been assigned.
And now those roles were coming back to kick him in the proverbial butt.
Another Ancient Device. Naturally, the Goa'uld knew about it. Naturally, time was of the essence. Naturally, there was no team but SG-1 that could 'Gate to the planet and bring it home.
Had he mentioned lately how much he hated those things?
And yet it was his job to go after it. So he'd play the game.
Carter seemed totally excited by the thing. She was practically glowing—although he supposed that could have also been because of the previous night's date with Pete the Wonder Stalker. He stopped himself before he could think about what they'd done on said date that would have caused that quantity of Carter Glow.
He'd found, over the last seven-ish years, that picturing Harry Maybourne naked worked quite well in getting other, more offensive images, out of his head.
He would, however, need copious amounts of Clorox to purge the thoughts he'd had last night, knowing that Sam and that smarmy cop had been whooping it up on their big night out. Harry just wasn't cutting it.
He'd sat on the couch watching The Simpsons, and for once, he hadn't laughed. He'd tried to remember his last date—how long it had been since he'd had companionship. He was thinking how long it had been for him. His last date had been so long before that he'd forgotten her name. The last time he'd gotten any at all had been on Edora. Four years ago.
How had he become this? Hadn't he once had a libido?
It didn't help, of course, that every other commercial in the Simpson's syndication time slot featured a product meant for male enhancement.
He really didn't understand the ones that had old people looking longingly at each other from separate cast-iron bath tubs.
If those little pills could counteract that kind of obstacle, sign him up.
But the thing that struck him as the most pathetic? He wouldn't have anyone to try it out with anyway.
He'd only need one bathtub.
To tell the truth, he really hadn't spent much time thinking about his male team mates' love lives. He'd assumed at one point—obviously because he was a complete raving idiot—that both of them were as celibate as he.
But then he'd taken note that Teal'c seemed to do all right with the Jaffa women they ran across, and even one or even fifteen of the women on base got all swoozy when he walked by in all his swarthy male tattooed forehead coolness.
And recently, Jack had become aware that Daniel got on all right with the women, too. There seemed to be chicks flocking to the scientist faster than wriggly to puppies, and, Daniel was responding in kind. He hadn't gotten his own coffee in weeks. The geek had become something of a ladies' man.
Go figure. Maybe there was something to that Ascension crap after all.
So that left him and Carter.
But then Carter had gone off and found Pete—the Uber Clousseau.
So that just left him.
He'd never felt more lonely in his life.
So he sat in the locker room, repacking his vest, trying to psyche himself up for the mission that he really didn't want to go on. Trying to forget that he was the only one that no one would miss.
Damn, he needed that dog.
The door opened behind him and someone entered. He didn't bother looking at whom—did it matter anyway?
Steady footsteps rounded the line of lockers and neared him, then stopped. Jack could tell by the intimidating awesomeness that it was Teal'c.
He sighed.
"You are being waited upon in the Gateroom."
"Yeah." O'Neill continued adjusting things in his vest. He wondered how he'd ever accumulated so much gear in one little article of clothing.
"Are you not prepared for this mission, O'Neill?"
He wondered if he was really going to need spare underwear. Not that anyone ever saw them.
"No. Almost there. Just hang on."
Teal'c remained silent as Jack hefted the weight of the protective vest onto the bench beside him and fastened all its closures. But once it was ready, Jack still did not rise.
To the Colonel's surprise, Teal'c turned and sat down on the bench. He looked sideways at his friend. The Jaffa's face expressed something—worry?
"I believe that there is something concerning you. May I somehow be of some assistance?"
Jack raised his eyebrows. "Assistance? What kind of assistance do you think I need?"
"I do not know. It is for this reason I have asked."
Jack almost smiled at that.
"I appreciate the thought, big guy, but I'll be fine. I'm just in a bit of a slump."
Teal'c continued looking at him, obviously unimpressed with the answer.
"No. Really. I'll be fine. I guess I just need a vacation."
A subtle change in the line of the Jaffa's lips signaled blatant disbelief.
"What do you want me to say, Teal'c?"
"I would like for you to trust me with the truth. I believe that we are friends."
Jack looked around to make certain that they were alone. The locker room sat silent—still—except for the two of them.
"Are you experiencing anxiety over the possible outcome of this mission?"
"No." O'Neill answered, "I can already tell you with absolute certainty that it will end up being a total cluster."
"What makes you believe that?"
"It's an ancient device. Have we found even one helpful one yet?"
Teal'c actually smiled—at least, the corners of his lips lifted a fraction. "They do seem to be unusually difficult to control."
O'Neill leaned down to tighten the laces on his boots. But Teal'c wasn't quite finished talking.
"Much like a spirited woman."
Jack groaned. "Let's not go there, T."
"I perceive that you are made uncomfortable by my reference, so I will make my statement brief."
O'Neill hastily muttered a brief, and slightly sacreligious, prayer.
Teal'c ignored him and forged ahead. "I know that Major Carter has recently established a new relationship with Detective Peter Shanahan. I also know that your feelings for her persist, in spite of her new relationship."
"Teal'c." Jack didn't like begging, but he was prepared to.
"I have come to know you as a strong warrior, and believe that you have only two options. You must fight for her, or you must step aside with honor and allow her to continue living her life. These are my thoughts. I offer them to you in the spirit of brotherhood."
O'Neill grunted.
Teal'c stood abruptly. "I will take my leave now. We will await you in the Gateroom."
Jack listened to Teal'c's measured footsteps as they neared the door. When they paused, Jack couldn't help turning.
"How do you do that?"
"Of what do you speak, O'Neill?" Teal'c turned, his hand lightly resting on the handle of the door.
"How do you fight? You know—for that?"
He could practically hear Teal'c's eyebrow rocket itself upward.
"On Chulak, when I found another warrior had attached himself to my wife Drey'auc, I claimed the right of Kalmar'tokim against him. It is how the Jaffa exact revenge against one who has wronged us."
But O'Neill sat silent, his back to the door. His hand moved and he picked up his cap. He fingered it, waiting.
Teal'c continued. "I do not know how one of the Tau'ri would do battle for this reason. Your rituals and customs still seek to confound me. And Peter Shanahan has not wronged you in any way. He has merely obtained the affections and attentions of a woman who was not attached to another."
Nothing but silence passed between them until O'Neill grunted again. Then he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, messing it up before jamming his hat over it in a well-practiced maneuver. "She's over twenty-one. She's got the right to choose who she wants to be with." Jack leaned over again to buckle his holster to his thigh.
"Is it her age, then, that intimidates you?"
Jack peered back at Teal'c over his shoulder. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean only that you are many years older than she, and as such may acknowledge that she might desire one closer to her own generation."
O'Neill suddenly stood and threw his vest over his shoulders. Grabbing the P-90 from the bench, he strode irritably toward the door, the straps of his vest flapping in his wake. Teal'c wisely stepped back as Jack neared him. Teal'c's expression had become one of interest.
As Jack passed, he slowed, pointing a finger at Teal'c. "Watch it, T, I'm not old." Then he stomped into the hall.
Teal'c followed him, intrigued. Down the hall, the elevator was full, so O'Neill headed for the stairs.
"Old guys don't take the stairs." O'Neill started muttering about halfway down the flight. At the landing he turned to where Teal'c trailed slightly behind. "And they don't go off world shooting at alien bad guys, and they don't hijack cargo ships and save little gray aliens from creepy powerful little alien bugs."
They reached the level of the Gateroom. The Colonel shoved the door open and marched through the hall towards the Gateroom. He kept talking, becoming louder as he went. "Old guys don't battle super soldiers and snake heads masquerading as Gods." He whirled, pointing again at Teal'c. "I am not old."
O'Neill stopped short in the middle of the hallway, forcing Teal'c to go around him on the way into the Gateroom. "I can still kick some major ass out there, my friend. Old people don't kick ass."
Teal'c came to a stop at the foot of the embarkation ramp. O'Neill stomped towards him, still ranting. "And, just for the record, old guys need bathtubs, apparently, and I haven't used a bathtub in years. Too many years. It seems I've kind of forgotten how. But if I had the need of a bathtub, I certainly wouldn't need any little blue pills."
Daniel and Carter stood in the Gateroom, surrounded by SG-3 and SG-5.
The normal hubbub surrounding a departure stilled. All eyes turned towards the Colonel. Some of the steam whooshed out of his tirade.
He stalled. He turned, only to see every eye in the room focused on him. Yeah. His life sucked.
Carter, of course, had to be the one to say it. "Bathtub, sir?"
He reverted to type. "Yes. Bathtub. Little pool—lives in a bath room. Good friends with the toilet."
Daniel and Carter exchanged a meaningful look before turning back to the Colonel.
O'Neill cleared his throat. "Although, apparently, it's not chummy with the sink—feels the sink steals its thunder."
Carter took a half step towards him. From under her green cap, her eyes radiated concern. "Are you all right, sir?"
He answered her by hurriedly strapping his vest over his chest and checking the load on his weapon again.
"Sir?"
"I'm fine, Major." He didn't want to look at her, didn't want to meet her eyes. Didn't want to know that whatever concern she was feeling was only out of respect, or duty, or friendship. He didn't want to think about fighting for anything other than galactic supremacy, or freedom, or just for the fun of it.
Oddly—completely incongruently with the situation, he wanted to be sitting in that cluttered room with the staring furniture, hearing Doc Poly tell him it would be okay. That he wasn't wrong after all.
He was tired of the game today.
----OOOOOOO----
Maybe that was why he did it, he reasoned later.
Sitting in the infirmary, the doctor on duty having already filled his mouth with a thermometer and blinked that stupid light in his face, Jack closed his eyes and felt the silence.
There was commotion all around him, but for some reason, the curtain that portioned off his section of the medical facility from the rest of the infirmary provided a filter of sorts.
He felt alone. Slightly disembodied, but he'd expected that. He'd kind of welcomed it.
He remembered Daniel making the move towards the device, remembered pushing the scientist back against the wall of the monument. He had looked up and seen gliders and other attack vessels, been nearly deafened by explosions so close they'd rattled his teeth.
And in one startling moment of clarity, had looked at his second in command and seen her shift—seen her move towards the Ancient device. He'd known—deep down to his steel toes—known that she was going to do it. And he'd known he couldn't let her.
She had something. She had family—Mark and his kids, and Jacob, out gallivanting around the galaxy as he was. She had colleagues who needed her, a nation who needed her ability. She had a relationship in which she might finally find some semblance of happiness. She was young. Plenty of life to live.
Daniel was in the same boat—too important to be lost. Too much to be lost.
Teal'c had family—and the device hadn't worked on him before. And besides, the Jaffa nation would need him when the dust cleared.
That only left Jack. Who had nothing but a house and a truck, and some questionable salsa in the back of his otherwise empty fridge.
So he'd thrown himself at the thing, and stared into his blinding depths. It was like the ultimate escape—suicide without the stigma.
And suicide was an escape he'd abandoned accepting long ago.
So, he'd thrust his head into the device and let it do its thing, and if he slowly lapsed into oblivion, well, he would count it as repayment for this contribution to society.
And a certain Major, and a certain archaeologist, and a certain Jaffa would venture on.
His eyes opened as the curtain was drawn back. The doctor entered, alone. He didn't know enough about the Ancient device to look more concerned. "Well, Colonel O'Neill, you seem to be in fine form."
"For now." Jack leaned forward, bracing his weight on both hands gripping the edges of the bed. "Am I outta here?"
"Yes." Doctor Who paused. "I understand that you have had this particular experience before."
"Been reading, have you?"
"I would just like for you to take some precautions. It would be a good idea for you not to be alone. There's no reason for me to keep you here, but I would like you to check in every twelve hours. Just to keep tabs."
"Yes." Jack hopped off the bed. "Tabs must be kept."
"For now, go home. Get some rest."
O'Neill nodded. "Will do." But he knew he was lying. Rest and tabs be damned, he'd never be able to do either.
And so he'd broken up the little party in the briefing room. All four of them, the General included, had looked slightly something to see him come up the stairs—Surprised? Uncomfortable? Guilty.
Worried.
Daniel had offered to drive him home, but he'd declined.
The last thing he needed was Mr. Sensitive hovering about.
He'd stopped for some Chinese on the way home, and then left it cooling on the table, uneaten, as he'd sat on his deck and let the dark settle.
He'd taken a long time and studied a photo of Charlie. He wanted to remember specifics for as long as he could.
He'd had several beers, but had quit when he'd failed to attain even a hint of a buzz.
He'd inserted a tape of the Simpsons into his VCR, but had neglected to turn on the television.
He ended up sitting on the roof for the rest of the night, next to his telescope, looking at stars.
And he could admit to himself that this didn't suck—this waiting. The first time he'd interfaced with the Ancient device he'd fought it. He thought he'd had a reason to stay himself. This time he had no such allusions. This would be what he gave—his sacrifice. He'd been willing to do it once before, with the Zay'tarc fiasco, when his brain could have helped Carter's, for once. His brain contained nothing special, but it could—it would—facilitate something profound. They'd have the information they needed about the Lost City, they would defeat the latest in greasy megalomaniacal bad guys, and O'Neill himself would be able to finally let go.
Retreat into the nothingness that lay beyond the knowledge of the Ancients.
So he sat on the roof, the photo of his son balanced on one leg. Waiting.
And for once in the past few weeks—months—years—his life didn't suck.