Swinging with the old stars
Title: Swinging with the old stars
Author: ardvari
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Set after Moebius, Jack and General Hammond meet in Washington. Dusty bar, whiskey, heart-to-hearts.
Swinging with the old stars
The air’s a bit stale, full of spilled alcohol and cleaning products, and this isn’t the kind of establishment he’d ever picture Hammond in. But there he is, the man himself, sitting at the bar with his dress uniform immaculate, his shoes shiny even in the dim, dusty light. Jack saunters over, his gait a bit loopy, like a teenaged boy that hasn’t quite figured himself out, doesn’t quite know what to do with all of his energy. Only he isn’t a teenager, far from it, and he’s always been this way around Hammond, a little silly, not to be taken seriously.
He’s dressed in civvies, not yet ready to put on that shiny, perfect uniform here, slip seamlessly into Hammond’s shoes. Who ever allowed him to retire anyway?
“Jack,” Hammond says and shakes his hand, his grip strong, his hand dry.
It’s the kind of handshake Jack likes, it’s clear and strong, it says a lot about this person across from him. He doesn’t like the half-hearted, moist handshakes of politicians and science nerds, of people falling all over themselves because of his stars, because of who he is and what he can do.
“Sir,” Jack answers, nodding.
He orders whiskey straight because it’s cool outside and this city is strange, so very strange and utterly alien. He’s not sure if he’s ever going to fit in here but who else is there for this job? No one else but him to fill Hammond’s sizeable shoes, that’s why he’s here, why he put his retirement ideas off once again, decided not to hang up his uniform quite yet.
Hammond chuckles, orders a beer for himself, unbuttons his jacket. The stools they sit on are just a little too high, the fake leather sticky with years of spilled drinks wiped away haphazardly.
“How’s everything?” Hammond asks finally, putting his bottle down.
He sets it down precisely on the ring of condensation on the bar’s spotty surface, turns it, broadens the ring. If he was sitting here with Carter or Daniel, they’d absent-mindedly draw triangles along the ring, too, a pedestal. Realizing exactly what they just drew onto this old, shabby wooden bar, they’d wipe their palms across it, slightly horrified, wondering if they were really that far gone, that far down the rabbit hole of gate travel.
But it’s Hammond and he doesn’t doodle, doesn’t peel off the label on his beer bottle. He merely twists the bottle, regards Jack solemnly.
“Things are good. I’m still not sure if this… all of this is the right place for me,” Jack says and gestures around the room, trying to engulf the world, the solar system, the universe maybe.
“It is. It will be,” Hammond replies, smiling again.
The man’s about to retire, calm, as if the weight of the world has already been lifted off his shoulders. It’s already starting to weigh Jack down, he can feel it, that odd feeling of impending doom that he’s had for years, whenever his phone rang at ungodly hours of the night and Carter’s worried, hurried voice ripped the fabric of his dreams in half, made him stumble into his clothes and drive to the base bleary-eyed and not yet fuelled by caffeine.
“How’s your team?”
“Old team,” Jack corrects and takes a sip of his whiskey.
It’s not the good stuff he keeps at home; this is the cheap, watery kind that burns its way down into his stomach unceremoniously, mockingly even.
Hammond rolls his eyes good-naturedly and Jack starts tapping out a rhythm on the bar’s surface. Tap, tap, tap, three fingers, one finger, two fingers. It sounds off somehow, even though this is his rhythm, just invented for the purpose of distraction.
“Daniel went on this dig with SG-5 last week. Not sure what he’s gonna do now, he’s got options. Teal’c’s more offworld than on with his merry band of Jaffa, and Carter… well, she’s doing Carter-things at Area 51. Saving the universe one molecule at a time, no doubt,” he quips and doesn’t notice how his voice grows soft towards the end of his vague explanation, tinged with fondness.
“You talk to her a lot?” Hammond asks innocently.
It isn’t innocent though, never has been. Hammond has always turned his eyes, his head, his entire body when it came to them. Too many incidents there that couldn’t ever end up in any reports, things he omitted because there were more important things at stake. There had always been the galaxy to save, after all.
“More than Daniel and… Teal’c I suppose,” he answers vaguely, downs his drink and orders a new one.
There are some conversations that call for alcohol, lots of it, and he’s getting the distinct feeling that this is rapidly turning into one of them.
“I’m glad,” Hammond says.
Just like that, leaves the sentence hanging there, between them like a bubble that will, no doubt, burst in Jack’s face as soon as he regards it more closely. But he’s never been very smart when it comes to stuff like this and so he asks, slightly befuddled, “You are?”
It’s Hammond’s turn to take a long swig of his beer, savouring the taste of it, that slightly bitter note settling against the back of his throat. He grimaces and then looks at Jack, his eyes serious, very serious.
“We needed her more than you did,” he says and his voice is both hard and full of regret.
“Not so sure about that.”
Regret there, too. Missed opportunities, his life is so full of them, choking him sometimes when he’s in bed at night staring up at the ceiling. He remembers just how many times he’s almost died, she’s almost died. Sometimes he remembers banal things, the fear, the loss that gripped him when she almost married Pete. He drinks down his second glass of whiskey quickly to chase the ghosts and demons away, shakes his head and scrunches up his face.
“I am. We needed her. We needed you both. We still do,” Hammond says.
“I’m not her commanding officer anymore. We’d never… I’d never… I think it’s my time to need her,” Jack says, grimacing again.
He hates these heart-to-hearts, would rather think back on the few stolen moments at his cabin before Sam took off to Nellis, and he headed off to Washington. He’d rather bask in those, hold on to those moments and imagine how they might grow over time. Now that they’ve made that first, crucial step in the right direction.
Hammond nods thoughtfully, then smiles.
“I think you’re right,” he says simply.
He claps Jack on the back, orders two more beers. No more whiskey, regrettably. He clinks his bottle against Hammond’s in quiet understanding. They’re both silent now. Jack lets his thoughts wander, lets them flutter back to the cabin, to one of those evenings when the sun had just dipped behind the trees. Sam on his counter, taking a sip of his whiskey, smacking her lips, smiling. The taste of that whiskey on her lips, that one thing, this miniscule memory would get him through the political circus of Washington. Maybe the only good way to drink whiskey was to taste it on her lips, to feel the burn on her tongue.
He shakes his head, grins sheepishly. Hammond chuckles, shakes his head. Another week and he’ll hand over the reins he still holds to Jack, will squarely place his burdens on the younger man’s shoulders. He won’t carry them alone, and that’s a comfort they both bask in a while longer.
Author: ardvari
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Set after Moebius, Jack and General Hammond meet in Washington. Dusty bar, whiskey, heart-to-hearts.
Swinging with the old stars
The air’s a bit stale, full of spilled alcohol and cleaning products, and this isn’t the kind of establishment he’d ever picture Hammond in. But there he is, the man himself, sitting at the bar with his dress uniform immaculate, his shoes shiny even in the dim, dusty light. Jack saunters over, his gait a bit loopy, like a teenaged boy that hasn’t quite figured himself out, doesn’t quite know what to do with all of his energy. Only he isn’t a teenager, far from it, and he’s always been this way around Hammond, a little silly, not to be taken seriously.
He’s dressed in civvies, not yet ready to put on that shiny, perfect uniform here, slip seamlessly into Hammond’s shoes. Who ever allowed him to retire anyway?
“Jack,” Hammond says and shakes his hand, his grip strong, his hand dry.
It’s the kind of handshake Jack likes, it’s clear and strong, it says a lot about this person across from him. He doesn’t like the half-hearted, moist handshakes of politicians and science nerds, of people falling all over themselves because of his stars, because of who he is and what he can do.
“Sir,” Jack answers, nodding.
He orders whiskey straight because it’s cool outside and this city is strange, so very strange and utterly alien. He’s not sure if he’s ever going to fit in here but who else is there for this job? No one else but him to fill Hammond’s sizeable shoes, that’s why he’s here, why he put his retirement ideas off once again, decided not to hang up his uniform quite yet.
Hammond chuckles, orders a beer for himself, unbuttons his jacket. The stools they sit on are just a little too high, the fake leather sticky with years of spilled drinks wiped away haphazardly.
“How’s everything?” Hammond asks finally, putting his bottle down.
He sets it down precisely on the ring of condensation on the bar’s spotty surface, turns it, broadens the ring. If he was sitting here with Carter or Daniel, they’d absent-mindedly draw triangles along the ring, too, a pedestal. Realizing exactly what they just drew onto this old, shabby wooden bar, they’d wipe their palms across it, slightly horrified, wondering if they were really that far gone, that far down the rabbit hole of gate travel.
But it’s Hammond and he doesn’t doodle, doesn’t peel off the label on his beer bottle. He merely twists the bottle, regards Jack solemnly.
“Things are good. I’m still not sure if this… all of this is the right place for me,” Jack says and gestures around the room, trying to engulf the world, the solar system, the universe maybe.
“It is. It will be,” Hammond replies, smiling again.
The man’s about to retire, calm, as if the weight of the world has already been lifted off his shoulders. It’s already starting to weigh Jack down, he can feel it, that odd feeling of impending doom that he’s had for years, whenever his phone rang at ungodly hours of the night and Carter’s worried, hurried voice ripped the fabric of his dreams in half, made him stumble into his clothes and drive to the base bleary-eyed and not yet fuelled by caffeine.
“How’s your team?”
“Old team,” Jack corrects and takes a sip of his whiskey.
It’s not the good stuff he keeps at home; this is the cheap, watery kind that burns its way down into his stomach unceremoniously, mockingly even.
Hammond rolls his eyes good-naturedly and Jack starts tapping out a rhythm on the bar’s surface. Tap, tap, tap, three fingers, one finger, two fingers. It sounds off somehow, even though this is his rhythm, just invented for the purpose of distraction.
“Daniel went on this dig with SG-5 last week. Not sure what he’s gonna do now, he’s got options. Teal’c’s more offworld than on with his merry band of Jaffa, and Carter… well, she’s doing Carter-things at Area 51. Saving the universe one molecule at a time, no doubt,” he quips and doesn’t notice how his voice grows soft towards the end of his vague explanation, tinged with fondness.
“You talk to her a lot?” Hammond asks innocently.
It isn’t innocent though, never has been. Hammond has always turned his eyes, his head, his entire body when it came to them. Too many incidents there that couldn’t ever end up in any reports, things he omitted because there were more important things at stake. There had always been the galaxy to save, after all.
“More than Daniel and… Teal’c I suppose,” he answers vaguely, downs his drink and orders a new one.
There are some conversations that call for alcohol, lots of it, and he’s getting the distinct feeling that this is rapidly turning into one of them.
“I’m glad,” Hammond says.
Just like that, leaves the sentence hanging there, between them like a bubble that will, no doubt, burst in Jack’s face as soon as he regards it more closely. But he’s never been very smart when it comes to stuff like this and so he asks, slightly befuddled, “You are?”
It’s Hammond’s turn to take a long swig of his beer, savouring the taste of it, that slightly bitter note settling against the back of his throat. He grimaces and then looks at Jack, his eyes serious, very serious.
“We needed her more than you did,” he says and his voice is both hard and full of regret.
“Not so sure about that.”
Regret there, too. Missed opportunities, his life is so full of them, choking him sometimes when he’s in bed at night staring up at the ceiling. He remembers just how many times he’s almost died, she’s almost died. Sometimes he remembers banal things, the fear, the loss that gripped him when she almost married Pete. He drinks down his second glass of whiskey quickly to chase the ghosts and demons away, shakes his head and scrunches up his face.
“I am. We needed her. We needed you both. We still do,” Hammond says.
“I’m not her commanding officer anymore. We’d never… I’d never… I think it’s my time to need her,” Jack says, grimacing again.
He hates these heart-to-hearts, would rather think back on the few stolen moments at his cabin before Sam took off to Nellis, and he headed off to Washington. He’d rather bask in those, hold on to those moments and imagine how they might grow over time. Now that they’ve made that first, crucial step in the right direction.
Hammond nods thoughtfully, then smiles.
“I think you’re right,” he says simply.
He claps Jack on the back, orders two more beers. No more whiskey, regrettably. He clinks his bottle against Hammond’s in quiet understanding. They’re both silent now. Jack lets his thoughts wander, lets them flutter back to the cabin, to one of those evenings when the sun had just dipped behind the trees. Sam on his counter, taking a sip of his whiskey, smacking her lips, smiling. The taste of that whiskey on her lips, that one thing, this miniscule memory would get him through the political circus of Washington. Maybe the only good way to drink whiskey was to taste it on her lips, to feel the burn on her tongue.
He shakes his head, grins sheepishly. Hammond chuckles, shakes his head. Another week and he’ll hand over the reins he still holds to Jack, will squarely place his burdens on the younger man’s shoulders. He won’t carry them alone, and that’s a comfort they both bask in a while longer.