SG Fic: Reliving [1/1]
Title: reliving
Author: sharim
Category: Mini!Jack fic.
Rating: Fairly adult
Spoilers: Fragile Balance (S7) and Affinity (S8) - set a little while after Affinity.
Notes: Quick fic - I intended to sit on it for a while longer than ten minutes, but I am impatient so decided to post it.
Thanks to seldear for initial comments & answering my questions and the inspiration for the title.
+
He remembers this time very differently to how he sees it now. He remembers it being full and ripe - the energy of youth driving everything and everyone. He remembers enjoying cheap beer, sexy girls and overly sweet punch. He remembers excitement and invincibility and anticipation of life, dreaming of the future and revelling in his newly found status of adulthood.
He remembers his innocence, such as it was.
Now he sits in the corner nursing cheap beer he can’t seem to swallow and wonders when he became so old.
The girls smile at him; he remembers the novelty and excitement of sex. Sex for the sake of physical pleasure, before he learnt it could be used for things other than love and heat of the moment impulses.
The girls are still smiling at him, bright even teeth and clear skin unmarred by time or guilt. Their hair bounces and swishes and glints in the light; it looks soft and inviting. Once upon a time he would have stared at them, admiring their shorts skirts and long legs and firm young breasts. He would have chosen the one with long blond hair and a low cut top, and when he caught her eyes he would have held her gaze while taking a long, deep swallow from his cheap beer.
Now he feels like a dirty old man looking at child pornography on his computer.
He flushes and stares resolutely at his beer. He should leave. Go someplace away from thumping music and sweat-filled air ripe with sex and drugs and youth. Go someplace where he can drink a real beer and listen to music set to a volume at which he can still think. But those places are all licensed and he’s underage.
He wonders how he enjoyed this once upon a time, and figures that with age came sense. One of the girls - the blond with long legs and blue eyes - sidles over to him, and he lifts his beer abruptly to his mouth.
“Hi, Jack,” she murmurs. Once he would have listened with his dick and spoken to her breasts. Now he wonders how old she is, and what her parents would say if they heard that tone of voice.
“Hi,” he says, forcing himself to swallowing the vile liquid.
“You look kinda lonely, sitting here all by yourself.” Her voice is smokey and deep; a voice too old to belong to a face that young.
“Enjoying my beer,” he says, finally meeting her eyes. Her eyes are blue and sparkle not unlike a pair of blue eyes in another lifetime.
She smiles. “Could have fooled me.”
He shrugs, forcing another swallow. “It’s good beer.”
She waits in front of him, shifting her weight from one elegantly heeled foot to the other, calf muscles flexing.
For a minute he wonders what she’d taste like. The honeyed taste of youth fresh and soft. But he sees the sparkle in her eyes, the dreams and hopes, and remembers he’s nothing more than a dirty old man with his future as his past.
This time he swallows the beer easily; it slides bitterly down his throat and curdles in his stomach. The bottle is empty and he rises to his feet carefully; he doesn’t quite remember how to use a body that doesn’t ache and groan and complain when he moves.
“I think,” he says, meeting her gaze again, “that I’m going home now. I’ll see you at school on Monday.”
He knows she’s watching him as he drops the bottle in the trash and picks his way through the crowd. When he steps outside the air is cool and fresh against his skin. He jams in his hands into his pockets and trudges home, head bowed and shoulders hunched.
There’s a small park a block from his apartment, and he pauses in the dark, listening. He hears cars and muted voices in the distance. Crickets sing, but the song is disjointed - he wishes he was at his cabin sitting on his jetty and watching the stars.
Jack raises his head and looks up at the sky dark and black and studded with stars. He stares for a long time, his eyes following familiar patterns and constellations.
She’s out there somewhere, he thinks to himself with a smile on his lips, doubtlessly saving the planet. Either that or she’s in her lab, saving the planet.
He stifles a choked sound - maybe a laugh - and bows his head as he continues his walk home. The beer churns uncomfortably in his gut and his mouth is stale as the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes.
Maybe if he was a better person he’d take hold of a second chance at life. Maybe he’d do things he regretted not doing, and do things he’d never thought he was interested in but discovered he wanted to know. Maybe this time round he’d do something useful, something right.
But he’s not a better person and he’s too old to start again. He’s too old to dream and aspire and imagine the world out there, because he knows what’s out there and he’s not sure he wants to endure another forty or fifty or sixty years. He watches his classmates dream and plan and knows they’re much younger than they think they are. He listens to their ambitions and plans, and remembers his own, and wonders what made his dreams change and wither and fade. He wonders if he’d done things differently whether it would have been Charlie sitting there at that party dreaming dreams and drinking cheap beer and enjoying life, instead of him. He wonders why he got a second chance while Charlie had no chance at all.
He stares at a photo of himself, grey and lined and old. In the mirror his cheeks are soft with youth, barely old enough to shave daily. His eyes are unchanged; too dark and old for someone still at school.
Suddenly he wishes he was still at the party with noise and people and sweat. He longs for a cheap beer in his hands and thinks maybe he shouldn’t have turned the blond girl down, but he doesn’t know her name or her number and she’d have found someone else by now anyway. Just like Carter found someone else.
He’s not sure the world needs two Jack O’Neills. God knows one couldn’t get anything right - what hope does another Jack O’Neill have of doing any better?
Jack lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling, watching shadows chased by streams of light from passing cars. His eyes sting and he bites down on his lip until he tastes copper on his tongue, refusing to let the scalding liquid spill from his eyelids.
He is not a child, and grown-ups don’t cry.
Author: sharim
Category: Mini!Jack fic.
Rating: Fairly adult
Spoilers: Fragile Balance (S7) and Affinity (S8) - set a little while after Affinity.
Notes: Quick fic - I intended to sit on it for a while longer than ten minutes, but I am impatient so decided to post it.
Thanks to seldear for initial comments & answering my questions and the inspiration for the title.
+
He remembers this time very differently to how he sees it now. He remembers it being full and ripe - the energy of youth driving everything and everyone. He remembers enjoying cheap beer, sexy girls and overly sweet punch. He remembers excitement and invincibility and anticipation of life, dreaming of the future and revelling in his newly found status of adulthood.
He remembers his innocence, such as it was.
Now he sits in the corner nursing cheap beer he can’t seem to swallow and wonders when he became so old.
The girls smile at him; he remembers the novelty and excitement of sex. Sex for the sake of physical pleasure, before he learnt it could be used for things other than love and heat of the moment impulses.
The girls are still smiling at him, bright even teeth and clear skin unmarred by time or guilt. Their hair bounces and swishes and glints in the light; it looks soft and inviting. Once upon a time he would have stared at them, admiring their shorts skirts and long legs and firm young breasts. He would have chosen the one with long blond hair and a low cut top, and when he caught her eyes he would have held her gaze while taking a long, deep swallow from his cheap beer.
Now he feels like a dirty old man looking at child pornography on his computer.
He flushes and stares resolutely at his beer. He should leave. Go someplace away from thumping music and sweat-filled air ripe with sex and drugs and youth. Go someplace where he can drink a real beer and listen to music set to a volume at which he can still think. But those places are all licensed and he’s underage.
He wonders how he enjoyed this once upon a time, and figures that with age came sense. One of the girls - the blond with long legs and blue eyes - sidles over to him, and he lifts his beer abruptly to his mouth.
“Hi, Jack,” she murmurs. Once he would have listened with his dick and spoken to her breasts. Now he wonders how old she is, and what her parents would say if they heard that tone of voice.
“Hi,” he says, forcing himself to swallowing the vile liquid.
“You look kinda lonely, sitting here all by yourself.” Her voice is smokey and deep; a voice too old to belong to a face that young.
“Enjoying my beer,” he says, finally meeting her eyes. Her eyes are blue and sparkle not unlike a pair of blue eyes in another lifetime.
She smiles. “Could have fooled me.”
He shrugs, forcing another swallow. “It’s good beer.”
She waits in front of him, shifting her weight from one elegantly heeled foot to the other, calf muscles flexing.
For a minute he wonders what she’d taste like. The honeyed taste of youth fresh and soft. But he sees the sparkle in her eyes, the dreams and hopes, and remembers he’s nothing more than a dirty old man with his future as his past.
This time he swallows the beer easily; it slides bitterly down his throat and curdles in his stomach. The bottle is empty and he rises to his feet carefully; he doesn’t quite remember how to use a body that doesn’t ache and groan and complain when he moves.
“I think,” he says, meeting her gaze again, “that I’m going home now. I’ll see you at school on Monday.”
He knows she’s watching him as he drops the bottle in the trash and picks his way through the crowd. When he steps outside the air is cool and fresh against his skin. He jams in his hands into his pockets and trudges home, head bowed and shoulders hunched.
There’s a small park a block from his apartment, and he pauses in the dark, listening. He hears cars and muted voices in the distance. Crickets sing, but the song is disjointed - he wishes he was at his cabin sitting on his jetty and watching the stars.
Jack raises his head and looks up at the sky dark and black and studded with stars. He stares for a long time, his eyes following familiar patterns and constellations.
She’s out there somewhere, he thinks to himself with a smile on his lips, doubtlessly saving the planet. Either that or she’s in her lab, saving the planet.
He stifles a choked sound - maybe a laugh - and bows his head as he continues his walk home. The beer churns uncomfortably in his gut and his mouth is stale as the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes.
Maybe if he was a better person he’d take hold of a second chance at life. Maybe he’d do things he regretted not doing, and do things he’d never thought he was interested in but discovered he wanted to know. Maybe this time round he’d do something useful, something right.
But he’s not a better person and he’s too old to start again. He’s too old to dream and aspire and imagine the world out there, because he knows what’s out there and he’s not sure he wants to endure another forty or fifty or sixty years. He watches his classmates dream and plan and knows they’re much younger than they think they are. He listens to their ambitions and plans, and remembers his own, and wonders what made his dreams change and wither and fade. He wonders if he’d done things differently whether it would have been Charlie sitting there at that party dreaming dreams and drinking cheap beer and enjoying life, instead of him. He wonders why he got a second chance while Charlie had no chance at all.
He stares at a photo of himself, grey and lined and old. In the mirror his cheeks are soft with youth, barely old enough to shave daily. His eyes are unchanged; too dark and old for someone still at school.
Suddenly he wishes he was still at the party with noise and people and sweat. He longs for a cheap beer in his hands and thinks maybe he shouldn’t have turned the blond girl down, but he doesn’t know her name or her number and she’d have found someone else by now anyway. Just like Carter found someone else.
He’s not sure the world needs two Jack O’Neills. God knows one couldn’t get anything right - what hope does another Jack O’Neill have of doing any better?
Jack lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling, watching shadows chased by streams of light from passing cars. His eyes sting and he bites down on his lip until he tastes copper on his tongue, refusing to let the scalding liquid spill from his eyelids.
He is not a child, and grown-ups don’t cry.