Fic: Five Things That Cam's Lost Over the Years
Title: Five Things That Cam's Lost Over the Years
Genre: Angst and a touch of humour
Rating: K
Spoilers: Minor for "Origin" and "Collateral Damage"
Disclaimer: Mine? No? Damn.
His Grandma
People are spilling out of the creaky old farmhouse, taking up space on the lawn he usually plays baseball on.
It’s a great lawn. Big enough to set the bases up really far apart and still have room for a huge outfield.
But even if all these people weren’t in the way, he wouldn’t be playing baseball today.
He’s spending the day with Grandpa, listening to people he doesn’t know talk about Grandma.
He doesn’t understand much. Not how God can be like a prairie windstorm, and not why Grandma went to see Father Campbell all the time even though there was no point in going if she didn’t have anything to confess. He tries, but he can’t understand.
Grandma understood. According to the strangers, she talked about these sorts of things all the time.
He wishes he’d paid more attention to what Grandma was saying and less to where her hand was in relation to the macaroon jar. Maybe then he’d understand.
The thing that really confuses him is why everyone keeps saying they’re sorry. They didn’t take Grandma away. Cancer did, or so Grandpa said.
Then Grandpa went into his room and stayed there for a long time.
He pretended not to hear Grandpa crying for two and a half episodes of The Jetsons. He also pretended not to be too big to sit on Momma’s lap and not to notice the wet spots she left on Daddy’s shirt.
That was two days ago.
Now Momma and Daddy are under the big oak tree talking to people he doesn’t know, and he’s sitting on the porch beside Grandpa, listening and learning so that one day maybe he’ll be as smart as Grandma.
His Best Friend
He’s used to moving. Used to pulling up in front of a house that looks a lot like his last house on a street that looks a lot like his last street on a base that looks a lot like his last base.
He’s used to being the new kid in a school full of kids used to being the new kid. Used to making friends with kids who will move without warning and become the new kids in a new school full of kids used to being the new kids.
He’s used to switching states and time zones and climates more often than Bobby Markham from his baseball team four moves ago changed his socks.
What he’s not used to is pulling up in front of a house that looks nothing like his last house on a street that looks nothing like his last street in a town that looks nothing like his last town.
He’s not used to being the new kid in a school full of kids used to going to school with the same kids, year after year. He’s not used to making friends with kids who expect him to stick around.
That’s why, a year and a half after Dad’s accident and one year after Dad left the Air Force, he cries as they drive away from the first house he ever lived in that wasn’t on a military base.
He doesn’t mind moving closer to Grandpa, but he’s going to miss the first friend he never thought he’d have to say goodbye to.
His Innocence
It’s a nightmare he can’t wake up from. He can’t think. Can’t understand. Can’t breathe, though whether it’s the guilt crushing him or the hot bile stuck mid-way up his esophagus that’s stopping him, he can’t say.
The call back loops in his head, over and over, and he knows even before he’s managed to turn back towards home, he’ll hear those staticy words every night for the rest of his life.
He considers heading for the deck, pushing his baby as fast as she can go and racing back to Earth. It’s no less than he deserves now, to die in a fireball like the one he just unleashed on who knows how many helpless souls.
It would be so, so easy.
But the impulse only lasts for a heartbeat. Even if he can’t live with himself, with the knowledge of what he’s done, his victims deserve justice.
He couldn’t give them protection, but he can give them that.
His Nerve
His hands are sweating as the jeep slows, stopping just a few feet from the thing that still makes him jerk awake most nights. He wants to wipe his damp palms on the thighs of his flight suit, but knows the alien material won’t absorb the moisture.
Besides, there’s a two-star general watching.
Jack O’Neill is already settled in the F-302’s second seat, doing an informal pre-flight and, if the slightly frazzled looking ground crew is anything to judge by, being a nuisance.
He learned a long time ago that when generals ask for favours, the right answer is always “of course, sir.” That’s why he’s here now, standing on the tarmac and gazing up at the very thing that nearly killed him, temporarily crippled him and robbed him of his love of flying.
The highest he’s been since the accident is the fourth floor of the Pentagon.
He drove from his parents’ house in Kansas to Washington for his re-assignment briefing, then from Washington back to his parents’ place to pick up his things, and then on to Colorado Springs to start at the SGC.
Flying back and forth hadn’t even crossed his mind.
Now here he is, standing on shaky legs while his heart hammers in his chest and blood roars in his ears, trying to come up with a good reason for backing out of this favour.
But watching him, expecting him to climb into the cockpit and fly first seat for a test run with the F-302’s new operating software, is General O’Neill.
The man who’d promised him anything he wanted and delivered.
The man who, General Landry had hinted, was rooting for him to succeed in getting the band back together.
The man who, if he does get the band back together, will trust him to keep them safe.
Beneath the weight of expectations, he closes the distance to the ladder and wraps clammy fingers around the side rails. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t look down, just concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.
Somehow, despite his shaky legs, he makes it up. Even though he’s still terrified, sliding into the smooth leather seat feels like coming home.
His Mind
“That is just not even close to possible.”
“Shush. You’ll spoil it for the aliens.”
“Having flown a variety of spaceships over the years, I think the aliens know that’s not even close to possible.”
“I don’t know... There’s this little place we could get a ship that comes close. With a bit of work…”
“Anyone on board a vessel attempting such a maneuver would be killed instantly.”
“If we cranked up the inertial dampeners…”
“Anyone on board would simply be killed more slowly. The result would still be an undesirable one.”
“See? Not spoiling it.”
“Never watching sci-fi with you again.”
“Never watching Indiana Jones with you again.”
“Is that the one about the dashing archaeologist? By the way, darling, you should think about getting a whip. Rrrrow!”
“There are, in fact, four movies in the Indiana Jones franchise.”
“Oh, excellent!”
“Oh, no! No, no, no! We are not…”
“Fine!” He sighs, exasperated, then pushes himself up off the couch and tries to ignore the triumphant smirks being traded as he reaches for the DVD cases. “We’ll watch Space Balls. Again.”
He loves his team, but movie nights with them are really starting to take a toll on his sanity.
Genre: Angst and a touch of humour
Rating: K
Spoilers: Minor for "Origin" and "Collateral Damage"
Disclaimer: Mine? No? Damn.
His Grandma
People are spilling out of the creaky old farmhouse, taking up space on the lawn he usually plays baseball on.
It’s a great lawn. Big enough to set the bases up really far apart and still have room for a huge outfield.
But even if all these people weren’t in the way, he wouldn’t be playing baseball today.
He’s spending the day with Grandpa, listening to people he doesn’t know talk about Grandma.
He doesn’t understand much. Not how God can be like a prairie windstorm, and not why Grandma went to see Father Campbell all the time even though there was no point in going if she didn’t have anything to confess. He tries, but he can’t understand.
Grandma understood. According to the strangers, she talked about these sorts of things all the time.
He wishes he’d paid more attention to what Grandma was saying and less to where her hand was in relation to the macaroon jar. Maybe then he’d understand.
The thing that really confuses him is why everyone keeps saying they’re sorry. They didn’t take Grandma away. Cancer did, or so Grandpa said.
Then Grandpa went into his room and stayed there for a long time.
He pretended not to hear Grandpa crying for two and a half episodes of The Jetsons. He also pretended not to be too big to sit on Momma’s lap and not to notice the wet spots she left on Daddy’s shirt.
That was two days ago.
Now Momma and Daddy are under the big oak tree talking to people he doesn’t know, and he’s sitting on the porch beside Grandpa, listening and learning so that one day maybe he’ll be as smart as Grandma.
His Best Friend
He’s used to moving. Used to pulling up in front of a house that looks a lot like his last house on a street that looks a lot like his last street on a base that looks a lot like his last base.
He’s used to being the new kid in a school full of kids used to being the new kid. Used to making friends with kids who will move without warning and become the new kids in a new school full of kids used to being the new kids.
He’s used to switching states and time zones and climates more often than Bobby Markham from his baseball team four moves ago changed his socks.
What he’s not used to is pulling up in front of a house that looks nothing like his last house on a street that looks nothing like his last street in a town that looks nothing like his last town.
He’s not used to being the new kid in a school full of kids used to going to school with the same kids, year after year. He’s not used to making friends with kids who expect him to stick around.
That’s why, a year and a half after Dad’s accident and one year after Dad left the Air Force, he cries as they drive away from the first house he ever lived in that wasn’t on a military base.
He doesn’t mind moving closer to Grandpa, but he’s going to miss the first friend he never thought he’d have to say goodbye to.
His Innocence
It’s a nightmare he can’t wake up from. He can’t think. Can’t understand. Can’t breathe, though whether it’s the guilt crushing him or the hot bile stuck mid-way up his esophagus that’s stopping him, he can’t say.
The call back loops in his head, over and over, and he knows even before he’s managed to turn back towards home, he’ll hear those staticy words every night for the rest of his life.
He considers heading for the deck, pushing his baby as fast as she can go and racing back to Earth. It’s no less than he deserves now, to die in a fireball like the one he just unleashed on who knows how many helpless souls.
It would be so, so easy.
But the impulse only lasts for a heartbeat. Even if he can’t live with himself, with the knowledge of what he’s done, his victims deserve justice.
He couldn’t give them protection, but he can give them that.
His Nerve
His hands are sweating as the jeep slows, stopping just a few feet from the thing that still makes him jerk awake most nights. He wants to wipe his damp palms on the thighs of his flight suit, but knows the alien material won’t absorb the moisture.
Besides, there’s a two-star general watching.
Jack O’Neill is already settled in the F-302’s second seat, doing an informal pre-flight and, if the slightly frazzled looking ground crew is anything to judge by, being a nuisance.
He learned a long time ago that when generals ask for favours, the right answer is always “of course, sir.” That’s why he’s here now, standing on the tarmac and gazing up at the very thing that nearly killed him, temporarily crippled him and robbed him of his love of flying.
The highest he’s been since the accident is the fourth floor of the Pentagon.
He drove from his parents’ house in Kansas to Washington for his re-assignment briefing, then from Washington back to his parents’ place to pick up his things, and then on to Colorado Springs to start at the SGC.
Flying back and forth hadn’t even crossed his mind.
Now here he is, standing on shaky legs while his heart hammers in his chest and blood roars in his ears, trying to come up with a good reason for backing out of this favour.
But watching him, expecting him to climb into the cockpit and fly first seat for a test run with the F-302’s new operating software, is General O’Neill.
The man who’d promised him anything he wanted and delivered.
The man who, General Landry had hinted, was rooting for him to succeed in getting the band back together.
The man who, if he does get the band back together, will trust him to keep them safe.
Beneath the weight of expectations, he closes the distance to the ladder and wraps clammy fingers around the side rails. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t look down, just concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.
Somehow, despite his shaky legs, he makes it up. Even though he’s still terrified, sliding into the smooth leather seat feels like coming home.
His Mind
“That is just not even close to possible.”
“Shush. You’ll spoil it for the aliens.”
“Having flown a variety of spaceships over the years, I think the aliens know that’s not even close to possible.”
“I don’t know... There’s this little place we could get a ship that comes close. With a bit of work…”
“Anyone on board a vessel attempting such a maneuver would be killed instantly.”
“If we cranked up the inertial dampeners…”
“Anyone on board would simply be killed more slowly. The result would still be an undesirable one.”
“See? Not spoiling it.”
“Never watching sci-fi with you again.”
“Never watching Indiana Jones with you again.”
“Is that the one about the dashing archaeologist? By the way, darling, you should think about getting a whip. Rrrrow!”
“There are, in fact, four movies in the Indiana Jones franchise.”
“Oh, excellent!”
“Oh, no! No, no, no! We are not…”
“Fine!” He sighs, exasperated, then pushes himself up off the couch and tries to ignore the triumphant smirks being traded as he reaches for the DVD cases. “We’ll watch Space Balls. Again.”
He loves his team, but movie nights with them are really starting to take a toll on his sanity.