Author: Badgergater

Season: 1

Episode: Brief Candle

Spoilers: Brief Candle and before

Category: Angst, thoughts; Missing scene

Summary: Getting old is no fun

Pairing: None

Warnings: None

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: They ain't mine... I'd do better by Jack if they were. I acknowledge the ownership of MGM, Gekko, Double Secret, SciFi (bless their hearts for season 6 and 7) and all those rich and powerful people... yadda yadda yadda. .

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His head felt like it had been used for a hockey puck,

The condition of his stomach didn’t bear thinking about.

It felt like something furry had died in his mouth.

Oh shit.

It was worse than that.

With a groan, Colonel Jack O’Neill opened his eyes and looked around, confirming his hazy memory. Shit. How stupid could he have been? Going to bed with a native woman. Okay, sure she was pretty, very, very pretty. And she’d been interested, really, really interested, in him. And how was he supposed to know the damn cake was spiked?

He was supposed to know because it was his job to be suspicious, damned suspicious, of everyone and everything, not be lulled into such stupidity, no matter how sweet and friendly and nice the natives had been.

Peering out at the world through one bleary eye, Jack realized he was alone, thank God. No need for embarrassing morning after explanations to Kitty…Kinta…Kinthia.

Using wobbly arms, O’Neill pushed himself off the bed and groaned as the walls wavered sickeningly. Suppressing the urge to throw up, he looked around and spied his clothes, lying in the heap where he’d tossed them last night when he’d…

Shit, what had he done?

Had he really?

Oh yeah.

Oh damn.

Sitting up on the edge of the bed, sheets wrapped around his torso, he contemplated the effort it was going to take to make it across the room to his clothes. For a long moment, Jack considered just crawling back under the covers and staying there, but damn it, the sun was high up in the sky already. And avoiding his team wasn’t going to solve his problem and spare himi the distasteful looks he was going to get from them.

Looks he deserved.

For letting them down.

Not so bad. The walls only shimmied a little, The Colonel took an uncertain step, feeling for the ground that seemed to be rolling like a rough sea beneath his bare feet. Staggering only slightly, Jack stumbled over to his clothes. Bending over to pick them up off the floor was a mistake. Everything, walls, floor, ceiling, lurched and spun wildly and the only thing that saved him from an ignominious crash to the floor was the fortunate proximity of a bench along the wall. Flopping onto the stone seat, he dropped his head into his hands and groaned out loud.

This had to be the worst headache he’d had since, hell, since he couldn’t remember. His head hurt. His eyes ached. His muscles felt weak and twitchy.

He felt like crap.

Like crap run over by a freight train, an 18-wheeler and a Sherman tank, not necessarily in that order.

Oh, right.

He’d been drugged. He remembered that now, that embarrassing moment when Carter and the rest of the team had come looking for him, only to find him in bed with Kinthia.

Way to go, Jack.

Great way to earn your team’s trust. And respect.

And your own.

Crap.

Taking a deep breath, O’Neill once more forced his eyes open. Fumbling through the bundle of clothes he held, he found his briefs and trousers and slid them over his feet and up his legs. He had to stand to pull them on the rest of the way, which he managed awkwardly by leaning one hand against the wall to steady himself.

Gratefully sitting down once more, with trembling arms he pulled the black t-shirt over his head.

Pausing to suppress another surge of nausea, he located his socks and boots on the floor. Jack managed to get them on as well, though he couldn’t seem to focus his eyes on his bootlaces well enough to tie them.

To hell with it, then.

He couldn’t hide what a mess he’d made of things, so he wasn’t going to try. Brazen it out. Just pretend it had never happened. Carry on.

Right. As if that was going to work, he thought sourly.

Finding his sunglasses, he forced himself upright once more, and stumbled outside, into the bright sunlight and faced the worried looks of his team.

“Colonel?” Carter asked, concerned. “How do you feel?”

The sound of her voice raised the level of his headache another notch. It was nearing the proverbial perfect 10, he thought as he walked right passed her, making a beeline, albeit a wobbly off-kilter bee, toward the fountain. “Hung over. But okay.” Jack ducked his head into the cool water and wished the damn sun wasn’t so bright, his teammates not quite so cheerful, or the day ahead not quite so endlessly long.

He felt bad, sort of, about sending the others off to work while he reclined on the ledge beside the fountain. But Jack knew he wasn’t capable of staying upright, much less doing anything useful, even if he had something useful to do on this godforsaken planet.

He had actually managed to fall asleep before he heard his name being called.

“Colonel? Colonel.” That was Carter calling him.

Damn, she sounded way to cheery and bright and spunky, as always.

He opened one eye tentatively, discovered that the sleep had helped and his headache had retreated from a 10 to maybe a 5, at least if he kept his sunglasses on. “What?”

“Sir, you’ve got to see this. It’s just no possible…”

“Captain, if this is some weird science doohicky that I won’t, don’t, can’t and don’t want to understand…”

“No, Sir, it’s one of the natives. The child, actually, the baby that Daniel delivered yesterday.”

Jack sat up and noted with satisfaction that the world wasn’t spinning or the ground wavering. He even managed to get his bootlaces tied. Carter extended a hand but he stubbornly climbed to his feet unaided, catching the slight sway before it became a full-blown stagger. He *could* keep his eyes focused, both of them now, if he concentrated a little. Okay, maybe more than a little. But at least he no longer felt like Junior and half a dozen of his siblings had taken up residence in his gut.

Hoping Carter didn’t notice just how much concentration it took him to walk what he hoped looked like normally, O’Neill followed his second.

“There,” Carter pointed.

Jack looked around. It was a child, a toddler, two, maybe three years old. “It’s a kid, Carter.”

“Yes, Sir. But not just any kid. It’s the baby Daniel delivered yesterday.”

“That’s not possible.”

Oh shit.

This was too weird.

Guess this place wasn’t the simple paradise they’d thought after all, was it?

********

By noon, he’d started to feel better, and actually managed to eat a MRE and keep it down. The food seemed to help settle his stomach, and the headache had retreated to a dull, echoing ache in the back of his skull that he could pretty much ignore as he and Carter explored further up the beach.

She didn’t say anything to him, but he couldn’t miss the way she kept sneaking in those surreptitious glances when she thought he wasn’t looking. He sighed, angry at himself for doing something a green lieutenant knew better than to do… get drugged and, and, libidinous with a native…

“Captain, look, I…”

“Sir, you were drugged…”

“Which I shouldn’t have let happen…”

“We had no way to know, Sir, the locals seemed quite innocent. It could have happened to any of us…”

“But it didn’t.” It had happened to him, the Colonel, the senior officer. “I’ve got no excuses, Captain…”

She’d simply nodded and said no more.

Which didn’t make him feel any better.

Their hike up the coast turned out to be a waste. No other villages, no other natives, no sign of inhabitants, nothing but sand and grass and lapping waves that made his stomach roil. There weren’t even any trails or paths that would indicate the people they’d met ever left the village, which was strange.

Returning to the temple by late afternoon, they found Daniel still gushing over its symbolism, while Teal’c was, well, just being Teal’c. Watchful.

Good thing someone was, thought Jack guiltily, because he’d sure let his team down. “Let’s go back and see if we can find out anything else from the locals, huh?” O’Neill suggested.

They’d almost reached the courtyard, Jack walking in the lead, when suddenly, an odd feeling overwhelmed him. Helplessly, he felt his knees buckle and everything got dim and distant and he felt sluggish and slow despite the helpless fear that spiked through him.

********

Jack snapped suddenly awake, sitting up and staring around himself in momentary confusion.

What the hell?

Around him, on the other pallets, the natives were rising from the beds, smiling and chattering amongst themselves.

How the hell had he gotten in here?

Where was his team?

What the…”

Memory flooded back.

He’d been out in the plaza, talking to the rest of SG-1, the sun beginning to set, and then he’d just keeled over. He remembered going down, and talking to Carter, and then… nothing.

He’d passed out when the sun set.

Just like the natives did.

And now he’d awakened, at sunrise.

Just like the natives did.

Oh shit.

He felt like crap.

Still.

Again.

Except even more so.

Not hung over, but aching, everywhere, like the worst case of flu he’d ever had. O’Neill could almost hear his joints creaking as he climbed stiffly to his feet, twisting his shoulders, leaning backward to stretch his back, rotating his neck.

He felt awful.

Taking a step forward, he gasped as pain shot through his knees, up his spine, and deep through his shoulder, the one he’d had surgery on a decade ago. His eyes felt gritty, his hands so stiff he could hardly flex his fingers as he reached to run his hands through his hair.

Okay, now *this* was officially weird.

His hair felt longer.

And higher up on his forehead.

Sudden worry spiked through him.

Hobbling as quickly as he could across the room, the Colonel looked at his reflection in the polished surface of the silver colored plate hanging there.

O’Neill stared in stunned disbelief.

This couldn’t be him.

He tried to reassure himself this must be some weird phenomena of the light on alien metal, but even as he tried to convince himself of that, Jack knew better. Both his hands and his eyes and his aching bones told him what he didn’t want to know.

He’d aged.

Overnight.

Years and years.

Rip Van Winkle.

God, was this feeling arthritis? The awful, aching in every joint, the stiffness in every limb, the slowed responses?

The others, the natives, were looking oddly at him.

“Guess you never saw anybody this old before, huh?” he asked, trying to hide the fear that was consuming him.

“Age comes upon us suddenly,” Kinthia said softly.

“Well, it doesn’t come upon us like this,” O’Neill snapped, and hurried out to find the rest of SG-1.

They had to have an answer. Carter had gone home and she would come up with a solution. She and Doc would think of something.

In the meantime, he just had to hold on.

*********

Left behind.

It was the right thing, he knew that.

It was the only thing they could do, to protect everyone else.

But it hurt, deep down inside.

Left behind once more. Just when he thought he’d found a place to belong again.

Yeah, they’d promised to come back for him as soon as they found a cure.

A miracle, more like.

Jack O’Neill didn’t believe in miracles.

Left behind.

He hated those words.

Stuck here. Sure, the natives were nice and friendly. Especially Kinthia, who seemed to feel guilty for getting him into this mess and now was trying hard to make nice to the old guy.

Being old was hell. Maybe it was easier when it came on a person naturally, normally, gradually, instead of literally overnight, giving a guy a chance to adjust bit by bit. But this,, this was hell in a handbasket at light speed.

But hey, Jack, he told himself, look on the bright side. You won’t be old for long. It will be over in a hurry. Just a few days. Two weeks, Carter said. That’s how long he’d have at most.

Damn.

He wasn’t ready to give up. Hell, he’d just started to live again, and now this.

He felt older than the hills. Looked older than his granddad had, and his granddad had lived to be 96.

At least he wasn’t senile. Yet. Of course, the good thing about that was, if he was, he wouldn’t remember. Anything. A blessing there.

So yeah, here he was, sitting alone in the temple that housed the Stargate, thinking about his life, which, to be honest, had been one disaster after another. Thee was plenty to think about, plenty of regrets, so much he hadn’t done, because he’d thought he still had time.

He’d tried to write Sara a letter, tried to put onto paper the words he could never manage to say to her, but after only a few minutes, he’d given it up as hopeless, worthless, useless. Words couldn’t change what had happened, words couldn’t take away the pain he’d caused her, words couldn’t end the guilt or the sorrow or the anger. She wouldn’t want to hear anything from him, it would only hurt her more, deep down he knew that, just as he knew that her forgiveness wasn’t enough, because he could never forgive himself. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness. He had no right to ask for it.

What could he say to her?

‘Sorry.’ That was trite and useless.

‘I still love you.’ That was true, but, if she still cared, it would only hurt her more to know that, since she’d only get the letter once he was dead and gone.

‘Take care of yourself.’ That was *really* trite and useless.

“Go on with your life. Find someone who will treat you as good as you deserve.’ Right. Put another burden on her, give Sara more orders.

It didn’t matter.

What was done was done, the past was the past.

He couldn’t explain, the words didn’t exist, he doubted even Daniel with his 23 languages could find words to say what couldn’t be said.

Though he’d signed the divorce papers, she was still the beneficiary of his insurance policies. She’d get his house and his truck and his few other possessions. She might as well have them, there was no one else who mattered. Or cared. Not that she did, he told himself. She’d probably be glad never to have to see his face ever again.

Okay, so he was being morbid, bitter *and* self pitying, the entire whine hat trick.

What else did he have to do, huh, except sit here in his chair and remember what a mess he’d made of every good thing in his life?

He might only *be* 40 years old, but he felt as old as he looked.

******

100 days.

That’s all these people had.

Made Charlie’s life seem long by comparison.

How many days had Charlie had?

Ten years. Three thousand, six hundred and fifty, plus a couple of leap year days, and the three months between his last birthday, and…

So, three thousand, seven hundred and forty-five, or there abouts. See, that was a lot, in comparison.

Bullshit, Jack.

Can’t rationalize that one. Not even you, in your slightly dotty, getting senile old age, could buy that crock of shit. Sure, Charlie had more days, but he’d still been just a kid.

Never grew up like these people did, never loved or lived…

He wiped gnarled fingers across watery eyes.

Think of something else.

********

His team.

They were good people… the brilliance of Daniel and Sam, Teal’c’s stoic steadfastness. He’d learned a lot from them these last few months, and Jack fervently hoped that they’d learned a few lessons about survival from him, that they could be his legacy, his only one, he thought bitterly.

He missed them, and wondered, when he was gone, if they’d miss him. They’d only been teammates for a short time, but they’d become the family he no longer had, he realized with surprise. Well, being a team leader *was* always sort of like that, you had to be dad and big brother and mentor and a dozen other things, from mother hen to disciplinarian. He’d done his best to take care of them, to take better car of them than he had of his real family.

Don’t think about family, damn it. Think of something else.

********

Dear, sweet Kinthia.

An innocent. She’d meant him no harm, had no way of knowing that she was hurting him.

So full of life, bright and cheerful, even when he’d told her the awful truth, when he had thrown the words at her in the throes of bitterness and self-recrimination and self-loathing and anger, the only feelings he seemed to be able to muster most of the time.

She’d seen right through him. “You love her still.”

He hadn’t answered, hadn’t needed to answer, because the truth was the truth. Damn. He must be getting senile. His thoughts kept going around in circles, from Sara back to Sara.

As if that was ever going to change anything.

*******

Destroying these people’s beliefs wasn’t going to change anything, either.

O’Neill had regretted it, the moment those bitter, angry words had left his throat, but once said, they couldn’t be called back and he knew it. Anyway, these people deserved the truth. How they dealt with it wasn’t his problem.

But it was.

They were like children.

And he’d always had a soft spot in his heart for children.

They broke down his defenses, wormed their way through the walls he’d thrown up around his heart. Naïve. Innocent. Trusting. Believing.

He wished he could be any of those, but he couldn’t. Hadn’t been for a very long time, and would never be again.

So he’d encouraged them to pull down the statue.

Told them to believe in themselves, instead of trusting a false god who used them, who experimented on them and cheated them of the long life they deserved.

Most didn’t want to believe him, couldn’t let go of their blind faith in the snakehead god, but a few had. He’d watched the doubts grow in their eyes. Then, when they’d toppled the statue of old Popsickle, and there’d been no fire and brimstone, no lightning striking them down as heretics, he saw more and more of them begin to see the truth.

What good it would do them, he didn’t know, but hadn’t someone important once said that the truth will set you free?

So they were free.

Fat lot of good it would do them in 100 days, but, what the heck.

He’d accomplished something.

*********

So he’d gone walking with Kinthia. Old man or not, he enjoyed her company, her spirit and her beauty. And she tried so hard to be kind to him, to understand him.

But he still missed having someone around who understood his jokes. Heck, even Teal’c understood some of them.

*********

O’Neill knew now why old guys played golf and shuffleboard. Every movement was difficult, uncomfortable at best, downright painful most of the time. And that little prostate problem really wasn’t so little, if he admitted the truth.

God, he’d hated the looks on his team’s faces when they’d stepped through the ‘gate. Sure, he knew he looked ancient and decrepit.

Knew that, and hated it.

But what was, was what was.

And he *was* happy to see them again.

Even if it was too late.

*********

***Epilogue***

He’d hated saying goodbye to Kinthia. At the best of times, he hated goodbyes. Never said them, usually, not to anyone important. And she was important.

He was never going to forget her, or what she’d taught him. She’d reminded him of something he’d lost sight of lately, that, even in the worst situations, the worst of times, you had to hold on to your hope. You had to live every day to the fullest, because you only got one life, and you couldn’t change it, you couldn’t go back, you could only go forward, and take what life gave you and make the best of it. Looking back couldn’t change anything. The only thing you could change was today and tomorrow. It wasn’t easy. It never would be, his past would always be there, that dark hole just waiting to grab hold and suck him back into that black pit he’d barely escaped, but he wasn’t going to let it win.

Not now.

Not ever.

His farewells to Kinthia and the others done, Jack leaned on Daniel, shuffling back into the temple, waiting impatiently as Carter dialed home. The familiar kawoosh blossomed, and O’Neill, aided by Carter and Daniel, stepped forward and into the Stargate.

He wasn’t sure if you could scream in the wormhole. It was probably a good thing you couldn’t because his image was already tarnished and battered enough from this mission without his team hearing him lose it.

The instant he’d set foot into the event horizon, the pain had begun, agonizing, like the wormhole was flame instead of ice.

The moment within the cold of the vortex had seemed like a lifetime.

O’Neill staggered out of the gate, biting his lip to hold in the pain-filled moan that rose in his throat as he landed on the metal grating, collapsing despite his teammates assistance. Shivering, he hugged his arms around his chest. A minute ago he’d been burning up, and now he was freezing, the cold shearing through him like an icy wind. Another low moan escaped him.

“Sir?” Carter was standing above him, frowning, even as he saw Dr. Fraiser shoulder her way past his teammates.

“Colonel?” the physician asked.

“C-cold,” was all he could manage to say.

Doc waved at someone behind her, and in a moment, one of the orderlies brought the blankets from the waiting gurney, wrapping them around her patient.

Still shuddering, Jack welcomed their warmth.

Janet pulled the stethoscope from her pocket, listening intently to his heart and lungs, her sure fingers quickly checking his pulse. “Colonel, tell me where you’re hurting…”

“I’m just c-cold. Really c-cold. All over.”

Suddenly, Carter’s eyes went wide. “Damn, I should have thought of that. The compression of molecules during the transference and then reintegrating, is ice cold… and with the aging process he’s undergone…”

“…combined with poor circulation. The elderly get cold very easy. Damn.” Janet turned and began issuing orders as the Colonel was lifted onto the gurney. “Colonel, you could be suffering hypothermia, even frostbite. We’ll get you warm and comfortable soon, Sir.”

Clamping his jaw shut to keep his teeth from chattering, O’Neill simply nodded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a weird couple of weeks for Jack O’Neill.

Doc had kept him in the infirmary for five days as he gradually began to feel better, feel younger, day by day. The first few days he hardly remembered, thank God, he’d slept almost around the clock, feeling a bit better every time he’d awakened. He’d had to let one of the nurses shave him, he’d been too shaky too hold the razor the first day. Mighty embarrassing. Oh, it hadn’t been the first time he’d had to let a woman help him remove his whiskers. He’d never minded letting Sara do it for him. That had been kind of nice, actually, rather, um, invigorating, you know. But he didn’t have Sara to do it for him now, and one of the nurses had volunteered. She’d cut his hair, too, so he was beginning to feel a bit more like himself.

The aches and pains were fading away, and Doc kept reassuring him that she believed he was on his way to a full recovery. His knees still creaked, but honestly, they’d done that even before he’d been zapped by those nasty gould aging bugs. And his back, well, that had bothered him off and on ever since that parachute mishap years ago, so that was nothing new or unexpected either.

It felt good to feel his own age.

Forty really wasn’t *that* old.

Not if you didn’t think of it that way.

He was only 40. Lots of good years left.

Staring into the mirror this morning, he hummed softly as he lathered his face and shaved himself, savoring this simple task. He paused, flexing his fingers, remembering the throbbing, stiffened joints.

He was never going to get old.

Jack O’Neill was never going to let such a thing happen to him again.

He’d been old once, and it had been hell.

He was never going to eat cake, again, either.

Nope.

Never.

As for the making love thing, well, now that was a different story…

Jack grinned, and returned to shaving, and thought again that life really wasn’t so bad. Not as good as it had once been, that time was gone, but he was going to appreciate every day. He’d promised Kinthia that, and he was a man who kept his promises.

***The End***