Season: 7

Episode: Fragile Balance

Summary: Seven missing scene vignettes before and during the episode; though they flow together, each stands alone

Categories: Drama, Angst, Humor

Pairings: Six of the seven have none; one has Jack/Sara UST; Accurately marked on individual sections

Warnings: None

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.
Author's Note: Seeing more of Jack’s house spawned so many ideas.... This is really seven separate tiny but episode related vignettes, inspired in large part by the glimpses of Jack's house and what's in it.
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Balancing Acts, Part 1/7: Off Balance
Category: drama, humor
Summary: Jack gets a surprise
Pairing: None
------------
The first thing he noticed was that he’d overslept.

That was alarming in itself, because in more than two decades in the military, that was something his well primed internal clock never allowed him do unless he was sick, exhausted or hung over.

None of which he ought to be this morning.

Weird.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed and setting his sock-clad feet flat on the floor, he took a step… and promptly crashed, landing flat on his face.

Oh, that hurt, he thought, regretting the day he’d opted not to put in carpeting over the hardwood floors. His second thought was to wonder how he was going to explain to Doc about the bruises he could already feel blossoming on his knees.

Jack pushed himself up off the floor, and immediately grabbed for his pants which once again threatened to slide down to his ankles and trip him up.

Weirder.

Staring down, Jack saw that his sweats, for some unfathomable reason, were puddled around his ankles despite being pulled well above his waist. Half a second later, he realized that’s what had tripped him up the first time.

“This is bizarre,” he whispered, looking around the room, feeling his stomach clench as he realized his pants weren’t the only thing slightly out of balance.

Not only were his sweats weirdly way too big and way too long, everything else in this room he knew so very well was just a shade off kilter. Like that shelf, the one where his Air Force One cap sat, a gift of and signed by his Commander in Chief. Which should be totally visible, but that he now found himself looking up at. Ditto for the shelf in his closet above his clothes rack. The stuff on the top of his dresser. And the fish pictures on his wall, which he’d personally hung at his own eye level.

And which were now well above it.

Really weird.

Jack brought a hand up to brush across his face, and stopped it right there in front of his eyes, staring at the hand like he’d never seen it before. Well, no not never, just, well, for at least more years than he cared to think about, because his distinctively bent thumbs weren’t bent and weird, like they should be, ever since he’d broken them, er, had them broken for him, during his not so pleasant vacation in Saddam’s Fun Park and House of Horrors.

Too weird.

Freaked now, he hurried into the bathroom one hand firmly grasping his humungo pants, and looked into the mirror.

Blinked once, not believing his eyes.

Blinked again, convinced he was seeing things.

Blinked a third time, but the apparition in the mirror just kept staring right back at him.

Beyond weird now.

Okay, having the brown hair back was nice. The scar in his eyebrow had disappeared, but he'd always kind of thought that made him look rather, um, rakish. And the squint lines around his eyes were gone, too, which was not a bad thing… but the whole face had lost its well lived in look, and damn, it just wasn’t possible….

Was that a… zit?!?! he stared in horror.

He was also shorter, scrawnier and… oh, don’t look there, but he had to. Pulled up his shirt, no chest hair. Crap.

Decided he was just not going to check for other major shrinkage. No way.

He looked like he was 15, for crying out loud.

This wasn’t funny. Whoever’s idea of a joke this was, it definitely was *not* funny.

Not in the slightest.

His brain was racing, searching for some reasonable explanation. Okay, not reasonable when it came to normal, everyday human beings, but reasonable in the context of the bizarre life he led… SG-1, wormholes, aliens and all that.

And yeah, he’d been aged once, back after he’d eaten Kinthia’s cake, but de-aged?

Youth-anized?

Why?

Who?

How?

And why the hell did stuff like this keep happening to *him*?

It wasn’t like he was on some other planet. He was in his own house, for crying out loud.
He had to get to the base. Get to Fraiser, Doc would find a way to reverse this. He could count on her.

Get to the base, sort this out, get back to being himself.

No more weirdness.

Or at least, get back within the usual acceptable parameters of weirdness.

That would be a good thing.

++++++++++

Searching his closet, he found the smallest size t-shirt he had, which was still way the heck too baggy but wearable. The pants were a problem. Even with the smallest size belt Jack could find, buckled into its last hole, they kept slipping inexorably downward.

And shoes? He put on three pairs of socks and shoved his feet into a pair of boots, and still felt like he was walking in those giant oversized clown shoes.

Oh, he hated this.

Hated whoever had done this.

Was gonna *get* whoever had done this to him.

Jack grabbed his wallet, ID and his truck keys, walked out to his vehicle, and realized he had another giant sized problem.

Crap.

He looked like he was 15; he definitely didn’t look like the guy on his driver’s license. If he got stopped, he’d end up in jail, trying to explain something that was unexplainable. He could just see the look on a cop’s face as he explained that he really was the guy in the picture, just that an alien something-or-other had made him young… right, they’d lock him up in the nuthouse and never let him out.

Plan B.

Going back to his garage, he opened the door, pulled out his bicycle, and began pedaling his way to Cheyenne Mountain.

Oh, he was so gonna be late.

And whoever had done this to him was sooo gonna pay.

==================

Balancing Acts, Part 2/7: J
Category: Humor
Pairing: None
Summary: So what does the J stand for?
^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Dr. Daniel Jackson stared at the ID card in his hand. He remembered most things from his days in the SGC, the big things anyway. Some of the details, okay, a lot of the little details, were still a wee bit fuzzy.

Jack's military ID card.

Name: O'Neill, John J.

All right.

He did remember that John was a diminutive for Jack. Now that he remembered to call him Jack, instead of Jim.

"What's the J for?" he asked at last.

"You know," the kid replied sulkily.

"Actually, no, I don't. It's one of those things I've forgotten."

O'Neill's face brightened suddenly. "Good. I've always regretted letting you weasel that out of me."

“I didn’t weasel it.”

“How would you know that? You don’t remember, remember?”

“Well, I don’t weasel. I dig for clues, hunt for facts, use the scientific method.” Daniel replied, brow furrowed in concentration. "So is it Jonathan?"

Jack snorted. "John Jonathan O'Neill? Yeah, right."

"Joseph."

“No.”

"James."

"No."

"Jeremiah."

“Not.”

“Joshua.”

"On a bit of a Biblical kick, aren't you?"

"Justin."

"No."

"Julius. It would be appropriate. It means Greek for young, downy bearded." Daniel stroked his chin.

Young Jack glared, shaking his head negatively. "Nope not Julius, unless you know someone who is planning on stabbing me in the back."

Daniel blinked. "Wow, Jack, history, I'm impressed."

"I *do* have my moments."

"Jason."

“No.”

“Jubal.”

“Un uh.”

“Jurgen.”

“No.”

“Juno.”

A negative head shake.

“Jermaine.”

“Where do you get these names?”

“Javier.”

“That starts with a J?” Young Jack raised his scar-less eyebrow in an otherwise familiar way.

“Jorge. That’s with a J, too.”

“No.”

Jay…”

“Yeah, that’s the initial.”

“I mean Jay, like the bird, J-A-Y.”

“N-O.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Not gonna tell ya'," O'Neill smirked, doing his best George Bush Sr. imitation, which really wasn't bad.

"Jethro."

"Jethro? That's hideous."

"Actually, it's an old and honorable Hebrew name meaning abundance."

"Well, I'm not abundant."

"Jonah."

"Nope, not a whale kinda guy. I’m more into bass, trout, or the ever-illusive crappie."

"Jedediah."

“Wrong.”

“John.”

“John John?” Jack rolled his eyes.

“Well, if it was good enough for the Kennedys...”

“That wasn’t the kid’s name. Just a nickname.”

“Jose.”

"Nada."

"Julio.”

“Still nada.”

"Jerome."

"Ewww. No way."

"Jarvis."

"Nyet."

"Jacob."

"No."

"Jody."

"Non."

"Johan."

"Nein."

"Jesse."

"Not one of the James boys, no."

"Joshua."

"Already said, too Biblical."

"So tell me."

"Nope."

"You'll tell me if I guess?"

Jack grinned wolfishly. "Sure. *If* you can guess."

“J-e-a-n,” Daniel spelled.

“That’s a girl’s name.”

“Unless it’s French. Like Jean-Claude what’s his name.”

“I’m not French.”

“Could a' guessed that.” A pause. “Jeffrey.”

“No.”

“Jacques.”

“As in Cousteau? Wrong. Still not French.”

“Jasper.”

“Nope.”

“Jotham.”

“No.”

“Josephus.”

“Oh for cryin’ out loud. Enough already!”

“I’m getting close,” Daniel said smugly.

“You’re getting an-noy-ing,” Jack answered.

“Jonas.”

“I think we’ve already exceeded the SGC quota for employees named Jonas.”

“Jordan.”

“The country or the river?”

This time it was Daniel who threw Jack an annoyed look. “Jamar.”

“No.”

“JohnPaul.”

“My parents might have had bad taste, but that’s just weird. John JohnPaul?”

"Oh, so you've got one of those names like that MacGyver guy had..."

"What?" the young Jack glared at him.

"MacGyver. TV show, very popular in the 80s, especially among those about your age," Daniel added pointedly.

"That show was aimed at an audience waaay younger than me. Probably about as old as *you were back in the 80s."

"No, don't think so," Daniel pushed the glasses back up on his nose. “So, weird name.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you implied it…”

“I implied nothing…”

“JimBob.”

Jack snorted.

“Jerron.”

“No.”

“Okay, I give.”

“You can’t give. You can quit, but you can’t give. Because I’m not gonna tell ya.”

And with that, the young Jack O’Neill got to his feet and stalked out of the room. “I’m going to find Teal’c. At least he’ll talk to me.”

Young Jack, his SF guardian following quietly in his wake, stalked through the halls of the SGC, making his way to Teal’c’s quarters. As usual, the Jaffa was seated on the floor, crosslegged, the room lit by dozens of candles.

Jack picked a spot across the room from the alien warrior, and copied the Jaffa’s pose. “So, T, what do ya’ know?”

“O’Neill, there is something about which I have often wished to inquire.”

The young man spread his arms wide. “Inquire away.”

“You often refer to me as T, which I understand is an abbreviated form of my name. What does the J in your name stand for, O’Neill?”

Young Jack buried his face in his hands. “Oh for cryin’ out loud…”

========================

Balancing Acts, Part 3/7: Picture This

Category: Humor
Pairing: None
Summary: Who was in that picture in his dining room?
Author's Note: This little bitty thing is for Morjana, who like me tried to figure out who the person was in that photograph in Jack’s dining room.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^

They were all trooping up the walk, and going to enter his house, his sanctuary.

And snoop through it.

Damn.

It had been bad enough when the NID guys had pawed through all his stuff a few months ago, when he’d been falsely arrested, accused of shooting that damn fool Kinsey.

Strangers going through his personal things bothered him.

His friends going through his personal things was even worse.

They stepped into the house, and he saw the looks on their faces, immediately regretting his decision to go to bed last night without cleaning off the table. Well, going to bed at all last night had turned out to be a highly regrettable decision, come to think of it.
+++++

After a few minutes, Sam and Teal’c headed for the kitchen where the Jaffa was helping her to take samples of stuff from the refrigerator. Now it was just Daniel and Jack standing in the dining room.

“Hasn’t changed much,” Daniel said thoughtfully, looking around.

“No, not much. Got the floor refinished. The plants grew a couple of inches. Oh, yeah, and I emptied the wastebasket once.”

Shaking his head at Jack’s always odd sense of conversation, Daniel stepped away from the middle of the room, walking over to a small table set against the wall. Picking up a framed photo that sat there halfway behind a potted plant, he looked at the scrawled inscription, thinking that deciphering some people’s handwriting was worse than translating five thousand year old hieroglyphics.

He stared at the picture, trying to decide if he should know this person and finally giving up. Guess there were still gaps in his memory after all, he thought wryly. “So Jack, who’s Mary Steenburgen?”

========================

Balancing Acts, Part 4/7: Dinner for Two
Category: Drama
Pairing: None.

Summary: Jack’s messy dining room table seemed so odd in his otherwise neat house.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^

O’Neill’s house.

Nice place.

Nicer than her own, Carter thought as she stepped inside with the rest of SG-1, well, sort of with SG-1, if she included the juvenile version of Jack O’Neill.

She almost laughed then, because the Colonel was always pretty juvenile at least on the surface.

She spotted the glare he shot at her, and wiped the smile off her face. He was already angry enough with her over the ‘cute’ remark.

He wasn’t handling this situation very well, not well at all, in fact, acting surly and frustrated and put out.

Which, if she thought about it, was the way he usually acted.

And now she got to look around at his house. Under other circumstances she might have enjoyed feeding her curiosity about her commanding officer's haven, but the glares he was shooting in her direction warned her that she would be wise to keep that curiosity well hidden.

It surprised her, the mess on the dining room table. Not that it was messy, but the whole picture. Two beers and a bottle of wine. He’d never seemed like the wine drinking type; beer, yes, but wine was too… sophisticated for his tastes.

Not that he wasn’t sophisticated, she corrected herself quickly.

Oh, right, Sam. Be honest, she chided herself. The words sophisticated and Jack O’Neill did *not* belong in the same sentence.

Turning back to the table, she realized something was odd. He’d just told them he’d had burritos for his evening meal yesterday. So the Chinese take-out would have been from lunch. A lot of food, really a lot of food, even for him. Yeah, he was a pretty big eater, all of them were, actually, it was the physical activity of their jobs, miles and miles of walking sparked the appetite.

But something wasn’t right.

There, half hidden among the clutter of empty containers for mu shu pork and egg rolls, beside the burrito wrappers, was his chess board.

Sitting on the dining room table.

Like someone had been there, eating with him, and playing chess.

Someone he’d declined to mention.

Teal’c and Daniel had already started down the hall toward the Colonel’s bedroom, but Sam hung back, watching… oh, what should she call him?

“Sir?”

“What?” he snapped.

“Who was here with you last night?”

“Who said anyone was?” he countered, belligerence in his tone. Okay, there’d been nothing *but* belligerence in his tone since he’d shown up at the mountain as this younger version of himself.

“That,” she pointed at the chess board.

He put on his best poker face. “I was playing.”

“Alone?” she asked, incredulously.

“Yes, alone.”

His eyes shifted, blinked, returned to stare at her.

She knew it was a lie.

“Look, Sir, who you spend your time with outside of the mountain is your business…”

“Damn right it is,” he answered defensively.

“But whoever was here might have been involved.”

“No.”

“No, there was no one here, or no, this other person was not involved?” she pursued the question.

“No. Just no. That’s all you need to know.” He stared her straight in the eye, well, at a bit of an upward angle, as it were. “The last person who sat with me at this table, I’m not saying when or who, that’s strictly my business, is not involved in this. Pure and simple. Not a suspect.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

There’s someone you trust that much, Sir?” she queried, surprised.

“Yes.” His eyes dropped away, looking out the window, into the distance. “Yes.” He whispered, and said no more, walking down the hall to join the others.

Samantha Carter stared after him. She’d always known Jack O’Neill was a man full of secrets, but he’d just proven it beyond the shadow of a doubt.

===============

Balancing Acts, Part 5/7: And Now She Knew
Category: Missing scene, drama
Pairing: Jack/Sara UST
Summary: Carter makes a discovery about her Commanding Officer

---------------

She’d always wondered.

And now she knew.
+++++

Samantha Carter had never been in Jack O’Neill’s bedroom before.

Not that she hadn’t been in his house dozens of times over the six years she’d been his teammate.

But, considering that he was male, unmarried and incredibly attractive, okay, downright sexy, if you listened to the chatter in the women’s locker room of the SGC, this place was totally off limits.

He was her CO.

Decorum and proper military behavior had to be maintained.

But she’d always wondered.

And now she knew.

++++++++++

Like the rest of his house, it was neat, bright, light and airy. Big windows, an antidote to the cell-like confines of the underground offices where they worked. White walls. Fish pictures. Models of a wide variety of USAF planes.

Masculine.

Handsome, like he was.

Filled with mementos of his years in the military, just like his living room.

With one huge difference.

There were pictures here, pictures of his son.

She’d always wondered, knowing there were none downstairs, but understanding that the tragedy of his son’s death was his private pain.

A very private man, Jack O’Neill.

On his dresser, a picture of the Colonel and his son, both in baseball gear, the boy looking close to the 10 years of age he’d been when he’d died. She’d seen that picture before. There was a copy of it in the Colonel’s office, though it was turned so that casual visitors couldn’t see it.

Over there, another picture, of Charlie running toward the camera, much younger, all smiles and sturdy, chubby legs churning. Maybe age three or four. It was hard for her to tell, not having kids of her own, not even having had much contact with her brother’s kids for so many years.

And then she turned and saw the other one.

The one he’d see first when he woke in the morning.

The one nearest his bed.

The one that, obviously, had to be nearest and dearest to his heart to be there.

His family.

His whole family: Jack himself, one arm on Charlie’s shoulder, the other wrapped around his wife, Sara.

And then she knew.

Oh, she’d always suspected.

Sure, he flirted with her, in his mocking, boyish, always-a-clown, don’t-take-it-seriously way.

Sure, he looked at her sometimes with that hungry guy look she recognized, the kind that said he’d like to see what was under that uniform. Not that she hadn’t, of course, given him that same look back.

And yeah, she’d heard the talk, the innuendoes, the smart remarks from guys like that roomful of F-302 pilots, about her sleeping her way to the top; about who slept with whom in which tent when they were off world. The snide remarks in the commissary about the side benefits of being on SG-1.

As if any of it had ever been true.

Look, but don’t touch.

After all, they were both single, intelligent, attractive, healthy, unattached adults, neither of them prudish. Neither of whom, she imagined, wanted to be celibate for the rest of their lives.

At least not in her case, though she didn’t know for sure about him, of course. That wasn’t the kind of thing that came up in conversations between her and her teammates. Ever.

Was she attracted to him? Sure. She was human and female, and he was most definitely male and easy on the eyes. Funny, too.

But then, she’d been attracted to Martouf and Narim and Joe and Orlin, and God forgive her, McKay intrigued her to no end. And that was something she didn’t want to dwell on right now.

But though she and the Colonel talked, and sometimes flirted, and on occasion had given each other those appraising looks, she’d always wondered why it went no further.

Was it really the regs?

Or was it her?

Or him?

And now she knew.

It was the other woman.

Sara.

He was still in love with his wife.

Why else would a man keep her picture beside his bed? He had other pictures of his son, if he only wanted to see Charlie’s face when he awoke.

But clearly, he wanted to see hers, too.

Sam remembered that long ago day, in that Antarctic ice cave, when he’d been hurt so badly, when she’d been trying to set his leg. For once, prompted by the excruciating pain he’d been in, he’d loosened that maddeningly tight control and opened his mouth and all but babbled on about himself, his feelings.

Babbling for him, at least.

She remembered the wistful look on the Colonel's face, the way his voice had softened when he’d told her what had gotten him home after the parachute accident that had almost killed him. “Sara. I had to see her.”

Rescuing himself, nine days alone, in hostile territory, with a skull fracture, focused on “Sara. I had to see her.”

That was the kind of love and commitment a woman dreamed of finding.

Few ever did.

And he’d held it for Sara.

Like he never had, and never would, for her, or for anyone else.

They cared about each other, as friends, and teammates, maybe even someday as lovers of the one night stand variety, satisfying a physical need.

But never a love like he'd had with her, never one of the kind that kept a woman's picture at his bedside all these years.

Samantha Carter wondered whether he ever saw his ex, if they sometimes had coffee or dinner or went to a movie. Or, she thought suddenly, shared Chinese takeout. He was so closemouthed about his private life that he could be seeing her every night and none of his teammates would know.

Maybe Sara went fishing with him, went up to that cabin where Sam herself had refused to go.

It didn’t matter, though.

Because now she’d been in his bedroom, and now she knew who was truly in his heart.

=============

Balancing Acts, Part 6/7: Runaway
Category: Angst
Pairing: None.
Summary: Young Jack leaves the mountain
^^^^^^^^^^^^^

He’d split that pity party before the music got started.

The Grateful Dead, he’d imagined, though ungrateful would be more appropriate.

Jack O’Neill hated maudlin.

The looks he’d had to endure, just in those few minutes after Carter, then Doc, then Jacob, had delivered one set of bad news after the next.

Now he knew for damn sure why Daniel had chosen what he’d chosen.

He’d hated the looks.

Hated the pity in their eyes.

Despised it, actually.

That’s why he’d run.

No dying in bed for Jack O’Neill.

He was gonna die with his boots on.

Die his own way.

It was the last thing left to him.

He couldn’t stomach the thought of all of them watching him die. That would be worse than the dying bit, which he’d always knew he’d get to eventually. And besides, he already had practice at the dying thing.

Without any witnesses, thank you. At least ones that you couldn't throw a shoe through.
And the Tok’ra would touch him again over his dead body.

Jack laughed bitterly. Dead body, yup, that would be him in not so very long.

He’d let the Tok’ra ‘save’ him once, and it had put him into a living hell.

He’d rather try the dead one, thank you, the once and forever more dead one.
He’d been suckered into letting those creepy little snakes ‘save’ him once, and, Jacob not withstanding, no matter how many promises they made, he knew they wouldn’t keep ‘em. Not if it suited them to do otherwise.

Self-serving little weasels.

If they couldn’t help him, which they couldn’t, he just wanted them to leave him the hell alone. All of them. Doc included. No, he wanted to spend his last days or hours doing what he wanted, not lying in a bed, being poked and prodded and staring up at long, sad faces that reminded him of all the mistakes he’d made.

Better to die alone, with his ghosts for company.

He wanted a beer, not just to drown the morbid thoughts he couldn’t clear from his mind, but to toast all those he’d soon be joining… Kawalsky, Frank Cromwell, Henry Boyd, Elliot, Col. Michaels, even Rothman…

Not Charlie. Wherever the hell he was going, and hell it most certainly was going to be, he hoped Charlie had gone to a better place. Not that Jack believed in heaven anymore, not that he believed in much of anything except the value of a good gun and a true aim, but if there was any justice in the universe, an extremely unlikely prospect, there had to be a better place for the innocents, like Charlie.

See, he already couldn’t stop his brain from traipsing down paths he just plain didn’t want to traipse.

Not now, not ever.

So, if he couldn’t drink away his morbid thoughts, then he’d go fishing. That’s what his Grandpa always said, a man should leave this life doing something he loved. Grandpa used to say if he could die fishing, he’d die a happy man, sitting beside a pool of crystal clear water, a fishing pole in his hand, and nothing more pressing on his mind than whether or not the fish were biting.

+++++++++

He’d had to tell a whole bucketful of lies to make his way to the creek. The guy at the bait shop asked him twice why he wasn’t in school, so he’d made up another in a long string of lies, telling the man he was fishing because his grandfather had died and he’d promised the old man he’d go fishing in his memory.

Jack wasn’t sure the storeowner had bought it, but he’d shut up and left him alone after that, selling him the fishing gear and giving him directions to the stream.
+++++++

He’d been most of the way there when it had happened.

Like a thunderbolt out of a clear blue sky, all of a sudden he’d gotten lightheaded. Pain stabbed through his head and his chest, his whole body, every inch of him, like someone was squeezing each and every cell in a vise. Somehow, he’d managed to stop the wobbling bike, letting it fall to the ground as he sank to his knees and retched, throwing up the Fruit Loops he’d had for breakfast.

He felt hot and sweaty, cold and clammy all at once, or maybe just one sensation flowed so quickly into the next that it seemed to be happening all at the same time.

Aw, crap.

It hadn’t seemed real, the whole dying thing.

Did now, though.

He stayed there, on his hands and knees, trembling arms braced against the ground, rocking back and forth as his whole frame shuddered.

Finally, when the pain eased and he could force his shaking muscles to obey his orders, he sank back onto his haunches, waiting while the air slowly returned to his lungs. He wiped a hand across his mouth, wishing he had something to wash away the bitter taste.

Like a beer.

Long minutes later, he climbed to his feet, pulled the bike upright, and began pedaling once more.
+++++

The stream was perfect. Quiet. Peaceful. Shaded by green trees, the sound of the water rolling over the rocks casting a spell of endless perfection. There was a deeper pool there, the kind of place fish liked. He baited his hook, dropped the line in the water, and sat back.

Hours passed.

Mostly, he didn’t think, he just let his mind drift, replaying the better moments of his life.

Which, of course, didn’t take long, leaving him waaay too much time to think about other things.

And then he heard them coming.

They couldn’t leave him alone.

Why couldn’t they just for once leave him alone?

Of course, they found him. Guess his evasive skills were deteriorating already. Or maybe they just plain knew him too well.

Then of course there’d been that wonderfully subtle and gentle way they’d given him the rest of the bad news. Bad enough to be dying, and then to find out he wasn’t even real.
Dead man walking, and not even a man.

A kid.

Who wasn’t who he thought he was.

A clone.

Nice.

Real nice.

Ironic, wasn’t it?

Now he knew exactly how that robot copy of him had felt, the one Harlan had created.
The universe was just one huge honkin' joke, and Jack O'Neill was the butt of it.

======================

Balancing Acts, Part 7/7: Fragile Peace
Category: Drama, Missing scene
Pairing: None
Summary: Jack and young Jack have a talk

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“I’m what?” Jack O’Neill’s tone was incredulous.

“You’re having young Jack over for dinner tonight. At your house,” General George Hammond’s tone made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order.

“Sir?”

“Jack, you and that young man need to have a talk.”

“No we don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“It’s just too,” Jack shuddered, “creepy.”

“For all of us.”

“Talking to him is like talking to myself. I know what he’s going to say, he knows what I’m going to say. We’ve got nothing to say to each other.”

“Yes, you do. Colonel, look, the boy will be leaving, and I think the two of you need to clear the air a bit. Besides, I think he’d like to see the place, your place, one more time.”

“He said that?”

“No, he didn’t. But he isn’t going to be staying with us, and I think he deserves the chance to make his peace. With you. And you with him.”

“General…”

“I can make it an order if you like, Colonel,” Hammond interrupted sternly.

“No, Sir. No need,” Jack answered with a hangdog look. “I’ll invite him over. After all, I know exactly what he likes to eat.”

“Right, Colonel, feed him. And *no* beer.”

“Yes, General, no beer.”

++++++++

The ride in Jack’s truck was uncomfortably silent all the way down the mountain. Jack didn’t know what to say, so he focused on his driving. The kid was equally silent.

The kid. Jack didn’t know what else to call him.

The whole thing was still freaking him out. Asking Thor to save the copy/clone whatever had been a spur of the moment thing. After all, his brain cells had hardly even been functional yet after a week asleep on Loki’s ship, injected with God only knew what weird alien chemicals.

Jack shuddered.

He liked Thor but the rest of the Asgaard gave him a bad case of the willies.

And this whole idea of someone else walking around with all his memories, his most secret memories, most embarrassing memories, most intimate memories like him and Sara, of him…

Oiy.

Out of the corner of his eye, O’Neill chanced a look at the kid. The young man was staring straight ahead, out of the truck’s windshield, not saying a word.

Well, that was very O’Neill-like, Jack thought.

Once at the house, Jack parked the truck. By the time he’d picked up his kit out of the backseat, the kid had jumped out and walked up to the front door. Reaching under the third rock to the left of the steps, the young man pulled out the key and went in.
Jack followed him inside. “Guess I’ll have to change that,” Jack noted.

The boy threw him a look, then stepped into the living room.

“I’ll start the grill. You can get the dogs out of the freezer, they’re…”

“I know where they are.”

“Ah, right,” Jack answered awkwardly, heading for the deck. It was cool outside. Dusk was falling, and it would be dark soon.

What a damn mess, Jack thought as he lit the coals and waited for the fire to get hot. The kid carried out a package of wieners and another of buns plus a set of tongs while balancing the ketchup, mustard and the well-aged but perfectly good salsa in his other hand. Without another word, the young man disappeared back inside.

Jack opened the hot dogs, setting half a dozen on the grill.

Suddenly, it occurred to him to wonder just what the kid was doing inside. Stepping back into the living room, he peered up into the kitchen just in time to see his younger self open the refrigerator door and reach inside.

Damn it, the kid was after a beer. “Don’t,” he warned.

The youngster spun around, a who-me look on his face. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you where,” Jack answered with the certainty of once having been this very kid.

The kid shrugged.

Jack waved a hand, indicating the young man should follow him back outside. Young Jack picked up a Pepsi from the fridge and stalked back out onto the deck, shoulders set, all sulky, incensed youngster.

The elder O’Neill followed the younger one back out to the deck, walking over to the grill, turning the meat, then staring out across the lawn.

Even though the kid had been living on base for over a week, Jack really hadn’t ever talked to him. He didn’t know where to begin. Maybe they could start with the obvious. “What should I call you?”

The kid, who’d flopped down into one of the deck chairs, just shrugged again.

“Well, I can’t call you by *my* name,” the gray haired man insisted.

“You could,” his younger self answered sulkily. “And you could let me have a beer.”

“I couldn’t. And I won’t. You’re just a kid.”

“Am not.” The young man glared at the older one.

This wasn’t at all what he’d once imagined dealing with a teenager would be like, sure, it was a naïve image, since he’d never found out for himself. He always thought he got on well with kids. Jack sighed. “No matter what your brain tells you, your body *is* that of a kid, younger than my own kid would…” Charlie had never made it to his teen years. The thought made his breath catch in his throat, and he looked away, blinking. This was sooo not the time to be thinking about that, not that there ever was a time. He swallowed the lump in his throat and unclenched his fists.

“I remember him too, you know,” the young man said very softly.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Jack snapped.

“I can’t not. I’m you, remember?”

The senior O’Neill risked a quick glance, and saw a darkness in the youngster’s eyes, a darkness he recognized all too well. “Sorry.”

“For what?” it was young Jack’s turn to snap now.

“For everything that’s there in your head because of me. It’s not exactly life with Ozzie and Harriet.”

“Well, there’d be no me if not for you. So, yeah, it’s not the past I’d have picked for myself, I’m more a Homer and Marge kind of guy, but it’s what I got.” The kid looked away this time. “And it could have been worse.”

Jack snorted.

“Loki could have picked Harry Maybourne.”

Jack laughed.

++++++++++

Dinner, if you could call hot dogs and a package of heated in the microwave macaroni and cheese dinner, was quiet. When they were done, both stayed seated, looking out into the darkness. The silence stretched uncomfortably, neither one saying anything for a long time. Finally, Jack couldn’t stand it anymore. He got up and went into the house, grabbing another beer and another Pepsi from the fridge. Stepping out of the kitchen into the hallway, he stopped, staring across at his bedroom, thinking. Making up his mind, he quickly retrieved several photographs and carried them outside, setting them on the picnic table in front of the young man. “If you want them,” he offered diffidently.

“I can’t take these…”

“Sara has the originals. She’ll make me another copy.”

The teenager nodded, studying the pictures, one of a young boy in his baseball uniform, the other of Jack, Sara and Charlie, the one that had stood on the nightstand next to Jack’s bed. “You gonna tell her?”

“About you? Hell, no.

The kid threw Jack another one of the patented ‘how dense are you’ looks. For Jack, it was more than a little weird to actually see what it looked like.

“D-e-n-i-a-l,” young Jack spelled.

“What?”

“It’s called denial.”

Jack shrugged, sipping on what was left of his first beer. “That’s my business.”

“Yes. Business you should take care of instead of avoiding.”

The Colonel bristled. “Who are you to be telling me what to do?”

“I’m you, remember?”

Jack jumped to his feet, stepping forward to gaze out into the darkness beyond the deck. “I *knew* this was a *really* bad idea.”

“You can say that again,” the kid snarked.

Jack turned to face him. “And I don’t mean just this meeting. This whole thing, the damn Asgaard making a copy of me…”

“I didn’t ask for this, you know.”

“I didn’t either,” Jack waved a hand in the air. “That sneaky little alien kidnapped me, and then he gave *you* *my* life, *my* memories, *my* knowledge, without so much as asking. That’s, that’s… rude.”

“Agreed.”

Jack’s frustration boiled over into anger. “Don’t agree with me, okay?”

“I can if I want to,” the young man’s belligerent answer.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re annoying?”

“Repeatedly. For the past 50 years.”

Jack stopped, then slumped back into his chair.

Silence reigned.

The kid reached down for the beer sitting at the other man's feet.

Jack senior quickly snatched the bottle out of the young man's grasp and slapped the can of pop into the outstretched hand.

“One wouldn't hurt me.” the kid complained.

“No”

“One.”

“Stop whining.”

The young man glared reproachfully at his older self.

"What part of no don't you understand? You related to Daniel or something?"

The deck got quiet once again, as both of them sipped their drinks.

Finally, Jack asked. “So?”

“So, what?”

“Why are you here?”

“Because this is my house.”

“Wasn’t your house. Well, okay, for a couple days, sort of. In a way. But,” Jack waved a hand through the air once more, cutting off that undiscussable point. “Hammond said you’d decided something.”

“Yes.”

“I assume you’re here to tell me what it is, as if it’s any of my business.”

The kid was bending the tab on the pop can back and forth until it came free in his hand.

Jack had just raised his bottle to his lips when the kid finally spoke.

“I’m going back to high school.”

Jack spluttered, spitting beer all over the deck, nearly choking. Young Jack jumped up, patting the senior version of himself on the back as the grayhaired man desperately gulped air and coughed.

Finally able to speak again, Jack turned watering eyes to the kid. “High school?” he croaked. “Are you nuts? Never mind, don’t answer that.” Jack cleared his throat. “High school? What the hell for?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t,” Jack answered with mock patience. “Enlighten me.”

Young Jack sighed. “Carter. Daniel. All those wet behind the ears young kids who know all about science and computers and make you feel dumb.”

“They’re way smarter than me.”

“The pronoun is us, way smarter than us. And no, they’re not, okay, Carter and Daniel sure, they’re smarter than 99.99 percent of the people on this planet. But if I want to be in the Air Force…”

Jack senior raised his eyebrows. “If?”

“Okay, in a couple of years, when I’m old enough to be in the Air Force again, I can’t afford to be a dinosaur…”

“Like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Was.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Never mind. Your point is?”

“No offense, but you’re close to retirement. A few years and you’ll be fishing, not flying spaceships or exploring other planets. But if I want to do those things, I’ve got to be as savvy as the competition. Not that what’s in my head from you isn’t good stuff, it’s just, some of it…”

“Is a little out of date.”

“A lot out of date.”

Jack nodded.

“But some of it does give me a head start, like just knowing about the existence of the Stargate. Sure, I don’t know why it works or anything, but I know how to make it work…”

“Never been interested in the why…”

Young Jack raised an eyebrow this time.

“Oh, right, forgot, you know.”

“Yes, I do.” The kid looked over at him one more time. “You know, you really should just have the word denial tattooed on your forehead.”

“That would hurt.”

“And be ugly, actually.”

Quiet descended once more over the deck as the man and the boy watched while the darkness filled in and the stars began to come out.

Jack waved up at the stars. “The future’s out there, you know.”

“I do. Thanks to you.”

---------The End---------

Author's Note: The items described are there in the ep, if you look closely: chess board on the table, pictures of Charlie in Jack's bedroom, picture of Jack, Sara and Charlie on the nightstand next to his bed; a baseball cap (I defined it) on the shelf, and a framed picture of someone in his living room, obscured by a plant.