Holiday Colors
By: Badgergater
Email: [email protected]
Season: 8
Series/Sequel: Colors series
Pairing: Jack/Sara
Category: Romance, Holiday
Rating: Anyone
Warnings: None
Summary: Jack must choose a very special gift and find the courage to give it
Disclaimer: Stargate is owned by all kinds of important folks that don’t include me; I’m just borrowing the characters, and will return them; This story, however, is mine, and may not be posted without my consent.

Author's Pledge: The real Jack O'Neill, presented with honest, accurate information about the fic so that the potential reader may make an informed decision on whether or not to read.

Author's Note: Thanks to Cokie for the beta, and to all those who feedback. It's not an easy time to be a Jack fan, but we persevere.
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"The greatest gift is a portion of thyself."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

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

I knew the exact gift I wanted to give her.

A gift I knew she would treasure more than gold or diamonds or pearls, because I know her, and how I've failed her in the past.

And that was the problem.

This wasn't a gift I could send my aide to buy in a store or one that I could order from a catalog or even one that I could con Carter into ordering off the internet.

It was something from me.

Something of me.

No, not that. Sara was already getting *that.*

This was something-okay, deep breath Jack- all about that shaky area of my life, you know, feelings, emotions, admissions, confessions.

All those things that needed to be said that I could never say.

Sara put up with it, before.

And she says she's ready to put up with it, now.

But I don't want her to.

Because she shouldn't have to.

Because she means that much to me.

Yes, that much.

Way more than that much, actually.

So I'm going to put it into words.

Even if it kills me.

Which it might.

//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\

This is something I've learned over the last eight years. Okay, okay, I know I'm a little slow. Most guys can talk by the time they're what, two? Even the slow ones by three. Me, I learned to talk, but never to *talk* if you get the difference?

All that bravado kept getting in the way.

But this amazing thing has happened in the last couple of years, well, maybe not amazing, maybe more like scary. Not that the bravado's slipping, because it's not, it's just that, well, sometimes, in very special circumstances, with people I trust very much, I can, well, I can set the bravado aside. For the moment. When I need to.

Not often.

Not easily.

Not completely.

And never for long.

But if I try, if I really, really try, I've discovered that I can find the words.

They always were there, even before, when I thought they weren't, but now, maybe because I'm older, maybe because I'm wiser-- ah, wait, no that's going too far; maybe because I've been forced to learn a few things, been humbled a time or two, had a bit of the bravado knocked out of me by life and death (my own included) and the Air Force.
//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\

I think the first chink appeared in the armor when we came back from Kelowna with a dying Daniel.
I sat at his bedside, watching this very special person, a person who had saved my life way back on Abydos by kicking my butt when it sure as hell had needed kicking, watching him die in slow, agonizing degrees, and I couldn't tell him that he’d saved my life. I wanted to. I tried to. But I couldn’t.

I carried that failure around inside me for a long time.

And then Doc died, and I wasn't able to say goodbye to her at all.

I've lost a lot of friends and comrades over the years, so maybe it's the accumulation of all those unsaid words; maybe the regrets finally pile up high enough that you can stand on them, like a sentry on a hill, and look back over your life and realize that sometimes, no matter how difficult, you have to break the mold if you're ever going to grow up.

Fifty ought to be grown up.

You do realize things once you hit the big five oh.

Like the fact that, though the spirit is still willing, you suddenly run head on into the wall of reality that your body just can’t absorb the punishment like it used to do; that the knees and the back aren’t ever going to stop aching. You really can’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

Combat is for the young.

Damage accumulates.

Loses mount.

Knowledge grows.

And somewhere along that long hard road you discover that sometimes, without finding the words, you can't call yourself a brave man at all.

Sometimes, courage *is* found in what you say, not just what you do.

For me, that was a mighty revelation.
//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\

I discovered this last year, when, one night, alone in my office and feeling totally ill-suited and entirely inadequate for the challenge I'd been presented, I sat down and started to write to George Hammond.

And I admitted to things I'd never have admitted to before that night.

Like, that sometimes, just sometimes, on some things, I don't have quite as much bravado as people think I do.

That, sometimes, just sometimes, I doubt myself.

That sometimes, just sometimes, I feel inadequate for the job.

That sometimes, just sometimes, I might actually get in over my head.

That sometimes, many times, ah, okay, if honesty is the policy here, then, most of the time, I don't feel worthy of the things I have been given, like the friendship of a man like Teal'c, or the trust of a man like George Hammond, or the responsibility of commanding the SGC and protecting the whole bleepin’ planet, for cryin' out loud.

Maybe once you've made an admission like that, it's easier to make the next one.

At least, that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it.
//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\

I always knew that I wasn't worthy of Sara, and yet, I needed her. I loved her. And I'd never been able to tell her.

And now, damn it, I was going to try.

If it killed me.

Which, to be honest, it just might.
//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\

Maybe it had something to do with the computer, with typing words into a machine, knowing that they could be obliterated with one keystroke, sent off into nothingness with no one the wiser.

Still, it wasn't easy.

"Dear Sara."

Oiy. The last time I'd written those words was long ago, with pen on paper on Kinthia's planet, in an effort to say what I was trying to say now. And despite the seriousness of that occasion, I'd never gotten further than those two words.

But I was different then.

So much has happened to me since.

Things I never expected.

Things that changed me. Forced me to change, some for the better, some for the worse.
I'd been so much younger then-- hey, the hair was still brown, remember?

Younger in much more than years, but in knowledge, about myself, mostly.

After all, I hadn't died yet.

"Dear Sara."

All by themselves, those two little words said so much.

"Dear Sara." Not just a salutation, but an admission.

A confession.

Not a capitulation.

Not a sign of weakness.

Because Sara was my strength.

Somehow, at the end of a long day, when I was hurt or exhausted, physically or emotionally drained, she allowed me to recharge. Because- I could see it all clearly, so very, very clearly now.

With Sara, I could be who I was.

I could let her past the bravado, to see the real me.

//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\

I love Sara.

Not that we didn't have disagreements and arguments, okay, fights.

But even those I found invigorating, and still find invigorating.

Though scarier. Because today I know that she has limits, and it is possible for me to overstep them and drive her away.

"Dear Sara."
//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\

It was late on Christmas Day when I finally got to her house, tired after a long day at the base. I rang the doorbell and she opened it a moment later, smiling.

Would she still be smiling after she got her present?

I could only hope I’d judged this, and her, right.

I could feel my palms start to sweat.

I kissed Sara’s cheek and followed her into the warmth of the living room. A small Christmas tree blinked colorfully in front of the big picture window.

Suddenly, I felt really stupid, really really incredibly, overwhelmingly, inexorably stupid.

With a sudden sense of panic, I knew this had been a bad idea, a really bad idea, one of the worst ideas I'd ever had in my life.

"I brought you something," I stammered like a raw recruit facing a drill instructor’s glare as I pulled the packet out of my pocket.

Sara looked quizzically at the envelope, then up at me.

I shouldn’t have done this, I shouldn’t have done this, oh crap, I shouldn’t have done this.

She was going to hate it, think I was cheap.

And stupid.

Idiotic.

That I'd gone nuts, whacko, off the deep end.

Okay, so maybe I had, but-- desperately, I looked around the room for a hole to crawl into, and found none, so I contemplated disappearing behind, under or into the couch. I uttered a fervent silent wish for Thor to beam me up, or for the President to call.

Something.

Anything.

I got nothing.

Oh, before, in the abstract, this had seemed like such a good idea, and now, in the reality of the moment, it was terrifying.

I watched, transfixed, as her beautiful hands opened the envelope.

The slip of paper fell out. She picked it up and looked at me, bewildered and slightly bemused, and then she unfolded the paper.

Her head was bent, I couldn't see her face, but I saw her hands begin to shake.

I heard her indrawn breath and I saw the first tear fall. It hit the edge of the paper, splattering like a rain drop.

Oh God, had I disappointed her that much?

I stared at her hands, afraid to raise my eyes to her face, afraid I'd see disappointment there.

God, I *am* a coward.

"Jack." She breathed my name in that special way she has, the one with a million deep inflections, and then there was only one of her hands clutching the sheet of paper, and the other was reaching up to touch my face. "How did you know I needed this? This is beautiful. This is-- this is the most priceless gift you could have given me."

I tried. I really tried, but I couldn't overcome the inner me. "Well, it *was* cheaper than the Bentley--"

Sara looked at me and laughed. "Jack, I don't care who the hell Bentley is, but whoever he is, he can't hold a candle to you."

With that, she reached over and kissed me.

Hard.

With intent and purpose.

With wanton abandon, actually.

My last coherent thought was that this was oh so going to be a good Christmas.

The sheet of paper I'd spent all those hours struggling over, slaving over, agonizing over, fluttered unnoticed to the floor.
//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\

"Dear Sara,
You deserved to hear this a long time ago, but I had neither the words nor the courage to say it.
I suppose, if it's the one thing I've learned over the past three decades, it is that wisdom, in some form, does come eventually, even to fools like me.
I don't know what love is supposed to be, but I do know this.
You make me whole.
You shelter me.
You allow me to be me at the same time you demand that I be more and better.
Most of all, when I'm weary, and broken, when I don't think I can go on anymore, you take me in and heal my spirit.
It's your gift to me, and I never recognized it until I threw it away.
I guess what this means is that at last I know how important you are to me.
I love you, Sara.
Merry Christmas
/s/Jack