[ficpost] "Being Sound of Mind and Body" Jack
Doesn't it always work like this? You're all set to give up one of your fandoms for lost, and then all of a sudden the characters won't leave your brain. And of course I have three Jossverse ficathons I should be working on, so instead I'm writing just-for-fun gen(!) fic. Anyhow. I come with fic to share.
Title: "Being Sound of Mind and Body"
Author: Ari
Fandom: Stargate: SG-1
Spoilers: General for S8
Summary: Jack character study. Mostly gen, with some passing instances of Jack/Sam-ness.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 975
Being Sound of Mind and Body
It hurts.
Every day, he walks from his truck to the main gate. He sometimes whistles. Mostly not. He hasn't felt like whistling much lately. He doesn't start frowning, usually, until the first SF salutes him. And the second. And the third.
The moment someone remembers to call him "General," he snaps. He mumbles, "At ease, Airman," and walks a little more slowly to the first elevator. Deep inside, it hurts.
He doesn't let it show on his face, in his stride, but he knows that they know and that makes it hurt a little bit worse. He greets his teammates (former teammates) in Carter's lab. She's invariably excited about something, and Daniel leans over, trying to get a closer look at whatever she's examining, and it hurts. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he sees two scientists. Colonel Carter and Dr. Jackson. It's almost like he never knew them.
Sam and Daniel.
He doesn't visit Teal'c anymore. The first morning he did, Teal'c wanted to spar, and the realization that he wouldn't need to keep in condition for active duty anymore made his stomach twist. He turned down Teal'c's offer.
He briefs teams other than SG-1, most days. Or, they brief him, and he pretends he knows what's going on.
It's painful to watch them go through the Gate without him, but it's his duty to watch them, so he does, every time. He stands behind bulletproof glass, arms folded across his chest, and sends good men and women across the light-years, God knows where. Most of the time, they come back, and he's always there to greet them.
It's his job.
He sits at his desk, most of the time, and looks at piles of paper. It's taken him awhile, but he knows now which bits he can throw away immediately and which he needs to have someone else explain to him. He's made three neat piles on his desk. He's not sure what's in each pile, but their neatness encourages him. It makes him feel like the desk is really his.
There's an elaborate fantasy regarding this desk, Carter, some fishnet stockings, a security camera, and Carter's favorite laptop. It was a better fantasy before the desk actually belonged to him.
Daniel likes to hang out in his office; he considers it revenge for almost a decade of being distracted in his office by yo-yo tricks and rude jokes, which is probably fair. Still, he complains. "I've got important work to do, Daniel." Daniel refuses to be hurt. He's got a skin thicker than Sara's gravy. It's a miracle anyone gets any work done around here at all, what with all the distractions. What with all the pain.
On mornings that he's preparing to send his team (his flagship team, his former team) offworld, he doesn't drink any coffee and won't accept any intrusions into the privacy of his office, except of course for the obligatory seventeen visits from Daniel about carvings on cave walls, thirteen visits from Carter about mineral deposits, and two visits from Teal'c with no agenda that Teal'c has ever shared with him. They're busy mornings, too busy for him to notice until they're gone how much he misses them.
No one even tries to talk to him after he's let SG-1 into the wavering blue event horizon and out of his sight. The last person who tried has been on retreat for two months and will reportedly be ready to face another human in just another six weeks.
He has four pens: one Bic pen, brought from home, which he's not allowed to use but that comforts him; one pen from a place called Cross that Walter insists he must use to sign all official documents; one fountain pen that was a present from George Hammond on the occasion of his promotion, and a quill that Daniel brought him from Abydos once. He has no pencils. He's in the middle of counting his paperclips, but occasionally something will come up that requires him to divert attention from this vital task, so at the moment, he doesn't know how many paperclips he has.
He refuses to smile while at the Mountain, on the general principle that no one should ever be happy while at work. He has refused to recant this dictate, despite the overwhelming evidence that both Carter and Daniel enjoy their jobs immensely. For similar reasons, he refuses to request that the commissary serve anything edible. It would be a violation of one of his dearest held beliefs about the antithetical nature of cafeteria food and pleasure.
He isn't allowed to doodle at briefings anymore. The fate of the world, apparently, depends on him actually paying attention. He wonders what Mrs. Mendoza, his fifth grade teacher, would have to say about that.
When he leaves, he feels a smile building in his jaw the minute he presses the up button on the elevator, but he doesn't let it out until he's reached his truck. Then he does let it out, but slowly. It's like what Doc Fraiser (God rest her) said about curing hiccups: hold your breath for thirty seconds, then let it out slo-o-o-wly -- no, Colonel, slowly. Or like warming up after being out in the cold: slowly, letting blood seep back into extremities.
When he turns the key in the ignition, he feels blood, hurt and pain and love and emotion, rushing back into his fingers and toes and heart. He deliberately slows his breath, lets a grim smile twitch onto his face, waits. Eventually, the pain of rebirth subsides and he can inhale his freedom without overdosing.
He drives away into the sunset, his radio tuned to the classical station, conducting Brahms on his steering wheel.
And it doesn't hurt quite as much as it will in the morning.
Title: "Being Sound of Mind and Body"
Author: Ari
Fandom: Stargate: SG-1
Spoilers: General for S8
Summary: Jack character study. Mostly gen, with some passing instances of Jack/Sam-ness.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 975
Being Sound of Mind and Body
It hurts.
Every day, he walks from his truck to the main gate. He sometimes whistles. Mostly not. He hasn't felt like whistling much lately. He doesn't start frowning, usually, until the first SF salutes him. And the second. And the third.
The moment someone remembers to call him "General," he snaps. He mumbles, "At ease, Airman," and walks a little more slowly to the first elevator. Deep inside, it hurts.
He doesn't let it show on his face, in his stride, but he knows that they know and that makes it hurt a little bit worse. He greets his teammates (former teammates) in Carter's lab. She's invariably excited about something, and Daniel leans over, trying to get a closer look at whatever she's examining, and it hurts. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he sees two scientists. Colonel Carter and Dr. Jackson. It's almost like he never knew them.
Sam and Daniel.
He doesn't visit Teal'c anymore. The first morning he did, Teal'c wanted to spar, and the realization that he wouldn't need to keep in condition for active duty anymore made his stomach twist. He turned down Teal'c's offer.
He briefs teams other than SG-1, most days. Or, they brief him, and he pretends he knows what's going on.
It's painful to watch them go through the Gate without him, but it's his duty to watch them, so he does, every time. He stands behind bulletproof glass, arms folded across his chest, and sends good men and women across the light-years, God knows where. Most of the time, they come back, and he's always there to greet them.
It's his job.
He sits at his desk, most of the time, and looks at piles of paper. It's taken him awhile, but he knows now which bits he can throw away immediately and which he needs to have someone else explain to him. He's made three neat piles on his desk. He's not sure what's in each pile, but their neatness encourages him. It makes him feel like the desk is really his.
There's an elaborate fantasy regarding this desk, Carter, some fishnet stockings, a security camera, and Carter's favorite laptop. It was a better fantasy before the desk actually belonged to him.
Daniel likes to hang out in his office; he considers it revenge for almost a decade of being distracted in his office by yo-yo tricks and rude jokes, which is probably fair. Still, he complains. "I've got important work to do, Daniel." Daniel refuses to be hurt. He's got a skin thicker than Sara's gravy. It's a miracle anyone gets any work done around here at all, what with all the distractions. What with all the pain.
On mornings that he's preparing to send his team (his flagship team, his former team) offworld, he doesn't drink any coffee and won't accept any intrusions into the privacy of his office, except of course for the obligatory seventeen visits from Daniel about carvings on cave walls, thirteen visits from Carter about mineral deposits, and two visits from Teal'c with no agenda that Teal'c has ever shared with him. They're busy mornings, too busy for him to notice until they're gone how much he misses them.
No one even tries to talk to him after he's let SG-1 into the wavering blue event horizon and out of his sight. The last person who tried has been on retreat for two months and will reportedly be ready to face another human in just another six weeks.
He has four pens: one Bic pen, brought from home, which he's not allowed to use but that comforts him; one pen from a place called Cross that Walter insists he must use to sign all official documents; one fountain pen that was a present from George Hammond on the occasion of his promotion, and a quill that Daniel brought him from Abydos once. He has no pencils. He's in the middle of counting his paperclips, but occasionally something will come up that requires him to divert attention from this vital task, so at the moment, he doesn't know how many paperclips he has.
He refuses to smile while at the Mountain, on the general principle that no one should ever be happy while at work. He has refused to recant this dictate, despite the overwhelming evidence that both Carter and Daniel enjoy their jobs immensely. For similar reasons, he refuses to request that the commissary serve anything edible. It would be a violation of one of his dearest held beliefs about the antithetical nature of cafeteria food and pleasure.
He isn't allowed to doodle at briefings anymore. The fate of the world, apparently, depends on him actually paying attention. He wonders what Mrs. Mendoza, his fifth grade teacher, would have to say about that.
When he leaves, he feels a smile building in his jaw the minute he presses the up button on the elevator, but he doesn't let it out until he's reached his truck. Then he does let it out, but slowly. It's like what Doc Fraiser (God rest her) said about curing hiccups: hold your breath for thirty seconds, then let it out slo-o-o-wly -- no, Colonel, slowly. Or like warming up after being out in the cold: slowly, letting blood seep back into extremities.
When he turns the key in the ignition, he feels blood, hurt and pain and love and emotion, rushing back into his fingers and toes and heart. He deliberately slows his breath, lets a grim smile twitch onto his face, waits. Eventually, the pain of rebirth subsides and he can inhale his freedom without overdosing.
He drives away into the sunset, his radio tuned to the classical station, conducting Brahms on his steering wheel.
And it doesn't hurt quite as much as it will in the morning.