H is for Hell
by Lokei
Jack’s new aide is late, and knows it. He’s red-faced and babbling as Jack waits.
“I’m sorry, sir, General O’Neill, sir.” He salutes and Jack raises an eyebrow.
“The traffic around Dupont Circle was hell, sir.”
Jack looks at his round-cheeked, unlined face, the crispness of his uniform, his haircut. He thinks about Iraq
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