The Truths We Hide

Adirondacks and Revelations

Post-Threads

"Can I get you something?" O'Neill climbed the stairs to his deck. "A beer? Water? Coffee?"

"No thank you, Jack." General Hammond shook his head, leaning back in his deck chair as he worked at loosening his tie. He'd removed his uniform coat a few hours before, depositing it over the back of the Adirondack, but had only decided to get truly comfortable once the last of the guests had gone. "I'm fine."

O'Neill had dispensed with his own uniform coat as soon as the last of the eulogies had been given. His own tie currently lay over the back of his couch, along with said coat and his hat. He was wearing an apron over the remainder of his uniform. He'd been given the task of grillmaster, and hadn't wanted to ruin his shirt.

Now that he had to wear the monkey suit on a regular basis, he'd grown to hate the maintenance of said monkey suit. Polishing, washing, starching, ironing—the rigamarole was enough to drive a guy crazy.

And, apparently it was also enough to make him start wearing aprons.

To be fair, it had been a gift. Years ago, Jonas Quinn had drawn Jack's name for the SGC Secret Santa gift exchange. Someone—Jack had a sinking suspicion it had been Teal'c—had convinced the Kelownan that every Earth guy wore aprons whilst cooking. Jonas had chosen well—he hadn't bought anything frilly or tacky. It was canvas, coated with something waxy, and emblazoned with the phrase 'Hockey is for Puckers'. So really, it would have been rude for Jack not to use it.

"Do you need a ride back to your daughter's house?"

"No." With a rueful little smile, the General shook his head again. "She'll be along after she gets the girls settled. I asked her to give me a few minutes to talk with you alone."

Okay. Jack successfully resisted the urge to groan, but couldn't quite stop himself from saying, "That doesn't sound ominous at all."

Hammond didn't seem to notice, though. His expression had turned thoughtful—even contemplative. "It was a nice memorial, Jack."

"There were more people here than I thought there'd be."

"Jacob would have loved to see so many folks here to say goodbye." His lips twisted in what seemed like a sad smile. "He was a good friend, Jack. Ornery and stubborn as all get out, but a good man."

"He was."

General Hammond sighed heavily, making a quick scan of Jack's now-empty backyard. An hour ago, it had been filled with Jacob's friends, colleagues, and the few family members who'd been able to make it. The get-together had followed the more formal service at the mortuary—where Mark and Carter had sat, stone faced, as Hammond had given a speech.

Of the Carter clan, only Mark's wife had cried, sniffling quietly into a constant supply of Kleenex. The children had seemed more curious than anything else, old enough to know something had happened, but not really understanding all the intricacies of the situation.

It had been General Hammond—the only real General around here—who'd made the decision to host a wake of sorts after the funeral, designating Jack's backyard as the perfect place in which to hold the gathering. Not that O'Neill had argued. If he'd been able to do one thing to make Carter's life easier after the death of her father, well, he'd do it.

"I'm glad that so many people could make it." Jack yanked the tie of his apron free, tugging the neck strap over his head and tossing it over the railing of his deck. He'd hauled out the big grill for the occasion, keeping a steady offering of burgers and hot dogs available. It had been pot-luck—chips and salads and desserts set out on tables borrowed from the SGC mess. "What with the short notice and the fact that Jacob hadn't been around much lately."

"I was happiest to see Mark and his family here." Hammond smiled. "I know that would have meant a lot to Jacob. And I know that Sam was glad to see them, too."

Not that she'd shown any emotion at all during the past few days. Once Anubis had been dealt with and Daniel had returned, she'd simply—disengaged. Left. Fled. He hadn't even seen her until this afternoon, when he'd walked into the chapel to see her standing beside Mark and his wife. She'd been holding hands with a little boy who'd been gazing up at her with frank adoration.

Jack had immediately identified with the child. Lucky little bastar—er—kid.

"I hear they're already heading back to San Diego tonight."

"I was hoping they'd stay longer to be here for Sam, but they couldn't. Mark and Melissa have to work, and the kids need to be back for school on Monday." Hammond sat up in the chair, blatantly ignoring the squeaks his movement elicited. "I was able to arrange a transport for them. It was the least I could do."

"Your rank was able to do things that mine wasn't, then." Jack leaned back against the railing, balancing himself with the heels of his hands. "Those yahoos at Haskell wouldn't give me the time of day when I called."

"You'll find that influence increases exponentially in accordance with the number of stars on your collar."

"I doubt that I'll ever learn that personally, Sir." Jack grinned down at his shoes, which had miraculously stayed shiny during the day's events. "I'm lucky to have the one I've got. I can't imagine that anyone in Washington is stupid enough to give me another one."

"I suspect that you'd be surprised at how you're perceived, General O'Neill." George chuckled. "There's a lot of talk about bringing you to the Pentagon."

Well, that was a bad plan. Jack grimaced, unable to quell the shiver that ran up his spine at the thought. "As long as it remains just talk, Sir. This command is about all that I can handle."

"So, Jack." Hammond began, narrowing his gaze at him. "Just exactly what are your plans?"

"Plans? What do you mean?" O'Neill was careful with his tone. It wasn't possible to interpret the look that the General was giving him.

"I was surprised to hear about you and the CIA officer."

Well, damn. Clearing his throat, Jack succeeded in only wincing a little. "You heard about that?"

"I have my sources, son."

"Well, that's disturbing."

"I had thought that you'd land somewhere else, Jack." The General steepled his fingers in front of him, squinting at Jack through the dimming light. "With someone else."

And now, he couldn't respond at all. He wouldn't have any idea what to say even if he could drum up a voice with which to say it. Heaving his shoulder in a half-assed shrug, he shook his head and made a grunting sort of sound deep in his chest.

Which Hammond apparently accepted as a response. Smacking the arm rests of the Adirondack chair with his palms, he suddenly rose to his feet. Pacing a little ways down the deck, the older man pivoted to study Jack. "Well, regardless. I wouldn't get too comfortable."

"Oh, I'd say that I'm about the furthest possible thing from 'comfortable' at the moment, Sir."

The General straightened, pulling his shoulders back, his feet firmly planted beneath him. It was his 'serious' pose. The one he took just before the iris opened, or as he met with alien dignitaries. Fixing his keen blue eyes on his friend, he seemed to consider things before speaking again. "Jack. I should probably tell you that Colonel Carter approached me earlier."

He stilled, peering over at Hammond. "Oh?"

"We had quite the conversation." Texas dripped off his words—a sure sign that he was gearing up to say something important.

"She's usually good for that, Sir." Jack frowned, folding his arms across his chest. "Seeing how she knows lots of words and all."

Hammond inhaled deeply, blowing it out through pursed lips. His jaw tensed twice—three times—before he spoke again. "I take it you haven't spoken to her, then."

"No. I haven't."

In fact, he hadn't spoken with her since that day. When he'd sat next to her in the observation room above her father's deathbed. When he'd put his arm around her and made his vow—such as it was. When she'd pressed his hand to her cheek and melted against him.

It was the closest he'd come in ages to telling her how he felt. How he still felt. And certainly the closest he'd been to anything even approaching truthful since—well, damn. Since he'd met her eyes in front of an Al'Kesh power core as the knowledge of the Ancients had unfurled in his brain.

He'd wanted to call her every moment since her father had died. Had called her half a dozen times, but she hadn't answered. When he'd asked Daniel about her, he hadn't known any more than Jack. In true 'Carter' form, she'd gone to ground, closing herself off from everybody and everything, and refusing to let anyone else in. She'd floated through the crowd this afternoon, engaging only when necessary with a wan semblance of a smile plastered in place. It had been—eerie. Maddening. And heartbreaking.

Which might have been why the General's tone was so careful. "Jack, she's asked for reassignment."

That was not what he'd expected to hear. Jack's eyes snapped up to meet George's. "Excuse me?"

"She's requested to be reassigned to Groom Lake. Thinks it would be nice to spend some time on Earth for a while. Wants to be close to Cassie, I think. Not to mention Mark and his family. In short, she's asked for some time away from the SGC and SG-1. To grieve, I think. Or maybe to figure a few things out."

For a moment, Jack merely stood there, frowning down at his shoes. The light had nearly fled, now, bathing them both into shadow. Still, the glow from the lamps inside seeped out from under the vertical blinds at the sliding glass door to tease at the toes of his shiny shoes. "But he just bought her a house."

"What? Who?"

"Shanahan. Pete. The groom." O'Neill straightened, only to turn towards the General and shove a hand through his hair. "He just bought her a house."

"A house?"

"Here in the Springs." Gesturing randomly into the air, he shook his head. "Why would she want to be re-assed to Nevada when her husband will be here in Colorado?"

Hammond's lips tweaked upwards in a quick, wry smile. "So, you haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

Taking a few steps forward, the General stopped in the same puddle of light that had surrounded O'Neill's shoes. His expression softened a bit—morphing from disbelief to something almost familial. "Jack—she called off the wedding."

Called off the—

Son of a bitch.

"It happened last week." Hammond glanced downward, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "From what Cassie tells me, it was the day after Jacob passed."

So—before Anubis attacked the base. She'd stood there next to him in the control room—listened as he'd ranted and railed. She'd offered suggestions and her expertise as usual—all right after she'd lost her father and given up on a dream.

And he'd yelled at her. He'd changed his tone when he'd seen the look on her face. Gentled things as he'd been able to within the situation and the moment. He'd thought that she'd go home and find comfort from the soon-to-be husband there. Instead, she'd gone home to emptiness.

Damn.

Damn. Damn. Damn it all to hell.

"I was wondering why the fiancé didn't show." Nudging at a random bit of schmutz on the decking with the toe of his shoe, he grimaced. How could he have been so blind? "It seemed weird that he wasn't at the funeral."

"I thought you knew, Jack."

"No." He thrust his hand through his hair—knowing that Hammond would interpret the action correctly, but he didn't really give a damn. "No, I did not."

"Well." Hammond sighed again. He sounded tired. Weary, when the man usually exuded an obstinate strength. "Now you do."

Night had fallen, the last of the sun's rays sinking below the distant horizon. Here, in Jack's backyard, it seemed darker—what with the tall hedges and old-growth trees and the emerald velvet of the lawn. He hadn't turned on his porch light, yet, and the only illumination came from the kitchen windows and that single lamp in the living room. Even so, Jack could see Hammond's expression shift again.

When he looked back at Jack, his eyes made another narrowed assessment. Longer, this time, more thorough. "I think that losing her father might have made her rethink a few things in her life, Jack."

Jack's eyes narrowed as he considered that.

"It could be that she's ready for something else." The drawl reached across the darkness quietly. Reaching out, Hammond touched O'Neill on the shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Maybe she's ready to begin a—well, a different chapter."

His throat felt like sandpaper. "Yes, Sir."

A honk from the street broke through the quiet, and the General took a step backwards. "Well, that will be Stacey. I'd better go before she makes me walk home."

"Thank you, Sir."

"We'll talk more soon. About Colonel Carter's reassignment. And other things." Grabbing his jacket from the railing, Hammond draped it over his arm. He walked down the deck towards the steps, pausing on the walkway below. "And Jack—"

"Yes, Sir?"

"I happen to agree with her. I think that it's time, too."

It took Jack entirely too long to respond, and when he did, his voice sounded weak. "For what, Sir?"

"For new chapters. For both of you to—well—not to belabor the analogy—but maybe it's time to start a whole new book." Out front, Stacey honked again, more insistently this time. With a rueful shake of his head, General Hammond threw a two-fingered salute Jack's way. "I'll be in touch."

But it was impossible to answer. Not with his mouth as dry as the Sahara. Not with words tumbling through his mind like rocks in a landslide.

And certainly not with regret coursing through him. Hot, and searing, and wild.

X X X

He'd changed, switching from the monkey suit into a pair of jeans and a henley. Grabbing a beer, he'd headed back out to haul the rest of the tables into the garage. He'd return them to the Mountain in the morning.

Afterwards, he puttered in the dark—picking up whatever bits of garbage he could see in the moonlight and tossing them in the trash. He put away the extraneous lawn chairs, and then resituated the Adirondacks on the deck. By the time he'd finished the bottle, the moon had already moved directly overhead, bathing the yard in a silver-blue glow.

It was cool. Fresh. He could feel a shift in the air from the chill of late winter to the crisp tang of Spring. Seasons changing and all that. He should be used to it by now. He'd lived enough life to know that change was the only true constant.

Changes, apparently. Plural.

Setting his bottle on the deck railing, he leaned forward, balancing his weight on his palms. The silence around him felt profound. It was one of the reasons he'd chosen this house—it was set far back from the road, surrounded by old growth trees and high, thick shrubs. He'd rented this place after Sara had left. Kicked him out. Whatever. He'd bought a mattress and a television and camped out in the living room for several months, eating take-out and abusing his liver. He'd gone looking for somewhere to hide out and sulk, and found one.

After things had gone completely to hell, he'd spent a lot of time out here, staring at the sky and wondering why he was still alive. Wallowing, truly—contemplating how low a guy could get before eating a bullet seemed preferable to waking up to one more hollow morning. And then?

And then he'd ridden a nuke through the 'Gate. Met an evil god. Found something worth saving. And damned if he hadn't started fighting to live.

A year later, he'd come to terms with things—with himself. He'd bought some furniture. He'd made a few improvements—the deck, a bird feeder, the perch for his telescope—and settled into the business of learning to live with himself. He'd made a ridiculously low purchase offer to his landlord, who had been only too happy to sell in a tough market. He'd put down roots—one tendril at a time.

He'd been offered another chance at the universe—a purpose with which to fill his newly-discovered life. And he'd set out to fight some more—with an old friend, a new one, and a determined, plucky, over-eager Captain with eyes the color of hope and a smile that felt like his future.

At some point in the past few years, he'd suddenly realized that he was living again—not just existing. That he actually looked forward to those mornings he used to dread. And maybe it was the work itself that had done it—gaining back that whole idealism thing he'd had way back when. Helping people. Filling a need. Liberating the oppressed.

Saving the universe tended to give a guy a whole hell of a lot of purpose.

But so did finding someone who made you glad to be alive again. Surviving was one thing. Actually living was another. Wanting to live—wanting to experience life again with someone else—that changed everything. He'd thought they'd been moving towards that. Slowly. Glacially, really. He'd believed that they'd had some kind of mutual understanding. Until, one day, she'd simply seemed to give up.

And then, there had been Pete.

Pete, who had, apparently, been sent on his way.

Straightening, Jack pushed back from the railing and reached for the bottle. Empty—perhaps a sign that Jack should call it a day. The rest of the clean-up could wait until tomorrow. With one last look up at the moon, he turned towards the house.

Only to see Carter standing to the side of the steps—in precisely the same place she'd been standing a week before. As he'd been basting steaks with beer and Kerry Johnson had been finishing the salad in the kitchen.

"There's actually a very good reason that I'm bothering you with this—"

She was wearing jeans, this time. And a sweater that swallowed her whole. Gray, with thick cables. Dollars to donuts, it had belonged to her father and wearing it was giving her some small comfort. The deep vee of the neckline exposed the elegant line of her throat, and she'd pulled the sleeves down around her fingers.

Of course she had. Her hands were always cold.

"Sir." Hesitant. Unsure. That single word carried a world of meaning. She stepped forward in the grass, looking quickly over her shoulder out towards the front of the property. Towards her car, maybe. Towards escape.

"Carter." Jack passed his tongue across his lips, turning fully towards her. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I guess. No." She reached up and tucked a bit of her hair back behind her ear. Fidgeted with the hem of her sweater. Shifted her weight onto her other foot, then back again. Glancing up at him, she shook her head. "I don't know."

"Do you want to come in?"

"No." Her eyes flickered towards the house before coming back to rest on him. "Is she here?"

"Who?"

"Her. Your—uh—Officer Johnson."

"No. That's—done." He sucked in an unsteady breath before frowning slightly. "Why are you here?"

Stupid question. Inane. Idiotic. As soon as he'd asked it, he regretted it. Groaning inwardly, he gripped the bottle in his hand so tightly he feared it might crack.

Like her expression. Tight—brittle—cautious. As if she were fine porcelain and the moonlight would break her.

"You're right. I shouldn't be." Blinking, she shifted again, her white Keds bright in the deep green of the lawn. "I'm sorry, Sir. I'll go."

"Carter—"

"Don't worry, Sir." Backing up a little, she wiped at her face with the knitted ribbing of her sleeve that she'd stretched across the back of her hand. "I won't waste any more of your time."

"Damn it, Carter." Jack set the bottle down on the railing with a dull 'clunk'. The deck creaked beneath him as moved closer to where she stood.

"No, Sir. This was stupid." She shook her head, taking another swipe with her sleeve. She took a longer stride backwards, this time, angling her body as if to escape back towards the street.

"Carter—" It only took him two steps to reach the railing. He practically collided with the wooden handrail, leaning over the wood with both hands braced on the top. "Wait—Sam—"

It was her name that stopped her. That left her standing on the walk—next to the wooden fence—with the moon in her hair and a sheen of something—tears? anger?—on her cheeks. And that sweater, encasing her like a shroud, except where the neckline exposed just how pale she was. Just how thin.

O'Neill straightened—running his tongue among the inside crease of his lips before letting out a frustrated exhale. "Just stay, will you?"

For the longest time, she stood there staring at him—her blue eyes calculating—considering the situation—weighing her options. When she finally spoke, her voice was waxy. "Why?"

Jack glanced up at the sky—as if the correct answer could be found in the clouds, or the stars. Exhaling, he ducked his chin towards his chest briefly before refocusing in on her. "Because we need to talk."

"Why?" Even through the darkness, her eyes were bluer than the Pacific. Sharper than normal, narrowed at him from beneath her lashes. "What's there to talk about?"

"There are things, aren't there?"

"I thought so. After my dad. After—what you said." She breathed out a bitter chuckle. "Apparently, I was wrong."

The wind kicked up a little, shushing through the trees and sending the little gate whacking backwards against the fence. It was chillier now—not cold. Just raw.

"We had a moment up there, you and me." He tilted a look at her. "Didn't we?"

She held his gaze for a moment before bowing her head to look at the ground. "We've had a lot of moments through the years."

"And so maybe I thought we were friends. Maybe closer than friends." Jack moved again, taking another step towards her. Clenching his jaw, he found some control, grateful when his voice emerged in a normal tone. "Something more."

"I thought so, too."

"So come inside." He threw a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the house behind him. "Let's talk."

Stepping backwards, she flickered a look through the windows before shaking her head. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

Oh, for crying out loud. Jack groaned. "Look, Carter. You're freezing. I can see you shivering, and I bet your fingers are blue. You came to talk, right?"

It took her a long, long time to respond, and even then, her answer was merely a weak nod. The only way Jack knew she'd moved at all was the way the nascent moonlight glinted off the strands of gold in her hair. He'd been holding his breath, his shoulders—his jaw—almost painfully tense, until she'd met his eyes with her own. Until he knew she'd relented. Exhaling slowly, he angled his head towards the door.

"So let's go inside and talk."