[O'Neill]
Who: O'Neill
When: Sunday afternoon, May 5
Where: Jack's cabin, eventually Gatetown General
Invited: Daniel, Jon, Sam, medical personnel.
Status: Incomplete
Sunday afternoon at his cabin was one of the quieter days. His friends had left, giving him the chance to straighten up a little and get some more plaster on the walls. He'd finished up the bedroom, and the 'guest' room had the finishing touches on them. As a result, Jack had splashes of the white paste on his hands, on his clothes, in his hair.
While waiting for it to dry, Jack made his way into the kitchen to pour himself a beer. He look a long draught, half emptying his mug before he wandered back into the living room. He perched on the edge of his couch, settling the mug on the coffee table (or was that a beer table?), and pulled one of his boxes towards him.
While not much for introspection, the weekend had taken something out of him. He'd actually said out loud that his time on a gate team was over. Sure, he'd done it before, but there was such a huge network from which to choose, while it was a personal 'big deal' (harder for him than anyone else, he firmly believed), the torch was easily passed.
Here? Not so much. But, he had so much on his plate, running support for 7500 colonists. Colonists. Not refugees.
When had that happened?
Jack exhaled in a long sigh and ran a hand through short, greyed hair. Dropping it again, he opened a box. It was time that Carter stood-- no.... it was time that he let Carter stand on her own two feet. From the beginning, he'd wanted to protect her... right up to the moment he'd left for Washington. He wanted her safe, he needed her safe, and so had also assigned Colonel Mitchell. It'd rankled her, he knew it.
Here, he was divesting himself of responsibilities, or rather, with a year under his belt, he was delegating more. With Sam 'back' in charge of SG1, she was essentially his Second in Command, in not so many words, which both made him happy and... not so much, but that was for purely personal reasons. With Matt Kennedy taking the reins of the civilian police department, he can drop martial law soon. Elections were coming, and he was getting the distinct feeling that by next year, he was going to have to look at reorganizing the military structure.
Jack reached in and pulled out the first of the truly personal effects. Pictures in small frames, in hanging frames.. a cuckoo clock... and he stopped, dark eyes looking at the items in hand. What he wouldn't give for--
Right. Gotta stop.
Jack put the things back, closed up the box, retook his mug and wandered back into the guest room briefly to check on the progress before passing back into his room, finally draining his mug en route. He changed quickly, grabbed his pistol, his hat and sunglasses, and emerged once more, making a beeline for his fishing pole.
When: Sunday afternoon, May 5
Where: Jack's cabin, eventually Gatetown General
Invited: Daniel, Jon, Sam, medical personnel.
Status: Incomplete
Sunday afternoon at his cabin was one of the quieter days. His friends had left, giving him the chance to straighten up a little and get some more plaster on the walls. He'd finished up the bedroom, and the 'guest' room had the finishing touches on them. As a result, Jack had splashes of the white paste on his hands, on his clothes, in his hair.
While waiting for it to dry, Jack made his way into the kitchen to pour himself a beer. He look a long draught, half emptying his mug before he wandered back into the living room. He perched on the edge of his couch, settling the mug on the coffee table (or was that a beer table?), and pulled one of his boxes towards him.
While not much for introspection, the weekend had taken something out of him. He'd actually said out loud that his time on a gate team was over. Sure, he'd done it before, but there was such a huge network from which to choose, while it was a personal 'big deal' (harder for him than anyone else, he firmly believed), the torch was easily passed.
Here? Not so much. But, he had so much on his plate, running support for 7500 colonists. Colonists. Not refugees.
When had that happened?
Jack exhaled in a long sigh and ran a hand through short, greyed hair. Dropping it again, he opened a box. It was time that Carter stood-- no.... it was time that he let Carter stand on her own two feet. From the beginning, he'd wanted to protect her... right up to the moment he'd left for Washington. He wanted her safe, he needed her safe, and so had also assigned Colonel Mitchell. It'd rankled her, he knew it.
Here, he was divesting himself of responsibilities, or rather, with a year under his belt, he was delegating more. With Sam 'back' in charge of SG1, she was essentially his Second in Command, in not so many words, which both made him happy and... not so much, but that was for purely personal reasons. With Matt Kennedy taking the reins of the civilian police department, he can drop martial law soon. Elections were coming, and he was getting the distinct feeling that by next year, he was going to have to look at reorganizing the military structure.
Jack reached in and pulled out the first of the truly personal effects. Pictures in small frames, in hanging frames.. a cuckoo clock... and he stopped, dark eyes looking at the items in hand. What he wouldn't give for--
Right. Gotta stop.
Jack put the things back, closed up the box, retook his mug and wandered back into the guest room briefly to check on the progress before passing back into his room, finally draining his mug en route. He changed quickly, grabbed his pistol, his hat and sunglasses, and emerged once more, making a beeline for his fishing pole.