Stars

Author: Badgergater

Season: 8

Episode: New Order

Category: Missing scene, drama

Warnings: None

Pairing: None

Rating: PG

Summary: O’Neill gets his promotion

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. I know that nothing having to do with Stargate is not mine. (I’d be better to Jack if it was.)

Author’s Note: warning: Whine follows…. Why oh why oh why couldn’t TPTB have thrown us a bone and let us see Jack’s one and only promotion ceremony in eight whole seasons, instead of (once again) Carter’s?

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

He was finally going to get that dinner at the White House.

Cool, actually, though he'd never let it show.

****

When the President called, he'd been sitting in his living room just looking around, studying the place like he'd never seen it before because, quite honestly, the last time he'd left, he'd pretty much figured he was never going to see it again.

It looked the same, of course. A little layer of dust on everything, a few more dust bunnies under the sofa, the plants looked a little wilted, the lawn long enough to be the grazing ground for a whole herd of cattle, and the EPA would surely declare his refrigerator as a hazardous materials zone.

But at least the beer would have kept.

Though, come to think of it, that last weekend, when his team and the General had all shown up, they'd pretty much depleted the beer supply.

Jack O'Neill sighed, and considered going out to replenish the cupboard and the fridge, and decided not to.

He just wanted to savor being home.

SG-1 had arrived back home from the Asgaard planet more than 36 hours ago. He'd spent most of that time in the infirmary being poked and prodded and subjected to every sadistic medical test *ever* invented, at the hands of a new doctor he didn't know. In between, people he *did* know drifted in to welcome him back. Most of them had seemed genuinely glad to see him again, even the Marines.

There was a lot to take in.

For weeks, he'd been… 'asleep' he guessed he'd call it for lack of a better description. It seemed to fit, considering how much he'd dreamed, of spaceships and sledding in Minnesota, and… twins. Meanwhile, the world had gone on without him. Really, though, it hadn't been much different than going off on a mission and being deep undercover. Or off-world. He needed to catch up on the baseball standings and the newest episodes of the Simpsons and for cryin’ out loud, how the heck could a hockey team from *Florida* of all places be allowed to win the Stanley Cup? There was something *really* wrong with that, he shook his head sadly, the Stanley Cup residing in a sultry city with palm trees and sand dunes

Then of course there were all the changes at the SGC.

The SGC.

Dr. Weir. He'd hardly gotten to know her as his new boss. She'd surprised him, with her willingness to listen. She wasn't military, but thank God she'd been open enough to see the military point of view. To give him the chance he needed.

And now she'd dropped this bombshell on him.

Brigadier General Jack O'Neill.

Command of the SGC.

Scary.

But, yeah, cool.

Okay, to be honest, much as he played dumb, he did have an ego, and he did have more pride than he'd *ever* admit to. He'd sometimes dreamed, not expected, but dreamed, of being the guy in charge, imagined how he'd run things differently if he was the one making decisions. Every officer did… you groused and complained and boasted that if you were in charge, you'd show up The Man.

Now, he'd actually have to prove it.

Because, to his own amazement, he'd decided to say yes, and take on the job.

Because, in the end, he didn't want his team, his friends, the people he'd worked with for the past seven years and had come to care about as the only family he had, to risk another idiot like Bauer.

Because, yes, if he was being *totally* honest for once, there was a teeny, tiny itty bit, a smidgen, a mote, of belief that he could do a good job.

Though the whole idea scared the hell out of him.

And he'd been honest when he'd said he didn't want the responsibility. And he *really* didn’t want to give up going through the gate. Though he hadn't been kidding when he'd said he appreciated the promotion, the paycheck and the parking space.

It was one of the lessons his long career had taught him, though, that getting something you really wanted usually meant giving up something else you'd once wanted equally much. Like going Special Ops had meant pretty much giving up flying. But not entirely, as it had turned out. At the SGC, he'd actually gotten to pilot both alien ships and Earth’s most incredibly cool, top secret and experimental flying machines… death gliders and teltacs and the X-302. Okay, so none of those experiences had ever exactly turned out well, it was true, but he was still alive and kicking and the planet wasn’t a smoldering ember.

Guess that meant that things had turned out well enough in the end.

So maybe he could give up being the field commander of SG-1, without permanently tying himself to that desk.

He could live with that.

Gate travel wouldn't be the only thing he'd be giving up, though, and some of those things were pretty important.

There was truth in the old cliché about being alone at the top. No more camaraderie among Colonels. As The Man, he'd be the only General at the SGC. No equals. Still, he'd have those who wouldn't be dazzled by his new rank, those who had always been sharp enough to see the real him, and always willing to skewer his ego when it needed deflating. Teal'c and Daniel, he would always be able to count on them to keep him from needing a larger size hat.

And George Hammond was still going to be his boss, though he’d be further away. Good and bad, there, he grinned.

Trips to his cabin, time to go fishing, would be a thing of the past for the foreseeable future. There wasn't a way around that. He'd seen how Hammond had struggled to get so much as a day away from the base. Opportunities to watch hockey or curling or even The Simpsons were all going to be rare.

He'd have to carry his cell phone and his beeper *everywhere*, and leave them turned on and even keep the batteries charged. Crap.

For once, not having a family meant simply that he wouldn't have to feel guilty for neglecting people who needed him.

He'd have to talk to politicians, even be nice to them, well, probably not *that* nice. Definitely a con there. But he could deal with that, to take care of the people at the SGC.

He could say yes.

Jack did have to admit that President Hayes had timing, because right about the moment he'd actually decided he would indeed accept the offered post, the phone rang.

He picked up the cordless on the second ring. "O'Neill here."

"Colonel," in the first moment, Jack didn't recognize the voice. "I'm glad I caught you. I was told you'd left the infirmary just this afternoon. I hope you're feeling well. No ill effects from your recent… situation?" the caller asked cautiously.

It was right about that point that O'Neill realized to whom he was speaking. Immediately, he sat up straighter, though he did somehow manage to suppress the sudden urge to stand at attention. "Uh, no, Sir. I’m feeling fine, Mr. President."

"Well, that's good, Colonel, very good, because I'm holding a little dinner party tomorrow night, and I wanted to personally extend an invitation. Dr. Weir tells me you're reluctant to attend."

Jack silently cursed. He'd thought Weir wouldn't have repeated any of their conversation. "Well, actually, Sir, I'm, ah… busy."

"Doing what, Colonel?"

"I've got a lot to catch up on, Sir. You know, the news, the weather, the sports, the Martha Stewart trial, who's zooming whom on General Hospital."

"Your President is asking, Colonel."

"Well, um… I'm really not sure, Mr. President, that I'm up to dinner at the White House. I doubt I'd, know which fork to use…"

"This dinner isn't some formal state occasion. And we'll label the forks for you, Colonel," the deep voice paused, continuing with a hint of amusement. "I don't have to pull rank and order you to attend, do I, Colonel?"

"I suppose resistance is futile?" Jack asked.

"Totally."

There was one question Jack did had to have answered, however, before he was going to agree. "Ah, one thing, Sir. The *Vice* President won't be there, will he?"

"No, Kinsey won’t be there."

Jack's sigh of relief was audible. "That's good. I can leave the P-90 at home then."

Hayes laughed. "I'm assuming that was only a joke, Colonel. George has warned me about you and that sense of humor of yours…"

"I’m sure he has, Sir."

"In fact, George has warned me about a lot of things concerning you. He said I would find you challenging…"

"Always, Sir."

"He also said you weren’t the typical Air Force officer. He said you were an outstanding, if unorthodox officer, and that you’re also bullheaded, obnoxious and quite frequently a smart ass."

"I've been called that, Mr. President."

"I bet you have." Hayes paused. "But then, I like a challenge, Colonel, and I know you do, too. And I do think that a not-so-typical job like commanding the SGC takes a not-so-typical officer. Even a smart ass. Occasionally. Just so it doesn’t get out of hand."

"Got it, Sir."

"I do like a man who can see the irony in life, Colonel, or could I call you, Brigadier General O'Neill? I understand that Dr. Weir has also relayed to you my choice for the new commander of the SGC. I hope you don't have the same feeling about that as you did for my initial invitation."

"Are you *really* sure you've got the right man, Mr. President? You don't mean that other Colonel O'Neil, the one with only one L?"

Hayes laughed again. "No, I know exactly which O'Neill I want. Now, there will be a plane departing from Peterson tomorrow afternoon. I'll see you say, 6:30 p.m.?"

"I’ll be there, Mr. President."

"Excellent. I'm looking forward to meeting you."

"Me, too, Sir. I think."

"Good night, O’Neill."

"Good night, Mr. President."

Jack O’Neill hung up the phone, staring at it for long moments, lost in thought.

Dinner at the White House.

Stars on his shoulders.

Scary.

But, yeah, cool.

***********

At noon the next day, dressed in his Class A uniform, Jack O'Neill walked out to the plane waiting on the tarmac at Peterson AFB.

"Wow, guess we didn't rate Air Force One, huh?" he said, looking over at Dr. Weir who accompanied him. "Maybe I should have told the President that it was one of the things on my list," he grinned.

"You want a ride in Air Force One?" she asked.

"No, Ma’am," the brown eyes twinkled, his right hand making swooping motions in the air. "I've always wanted to fly her. A couple of wing waggles, a few loop de loops, a mock dive bomb attack…"

She raised her eyebrows.

"Ah, well, I guess he wouldn't have gone for it anyway," he added, sounding for a moment like a ten year old who'd just been told he couldn't ride the rollercoaster. "Maybe next time we save the world."

She hid her grin. "Next time, Colonel."

They had reached the stairs up to the plane, a young lieutenant saluting when he saw O'Neill. "Sir, Ma'am, step aboard please."

Jack waved Weir ahead of him. "Ladies first, Doctor," then followed her, taking the steps two at a time. Reaching the doorway, he pulled the hat from his head, tucking it under his arm. Weir had already turned right, heading down a hallway toward what Jack could see looked like a VIP lounge. He turned left, toward the cockpit, tossing his hat on a vacant seat, unbuttoning his jacket and loosening his tie.

A major was sitting in the right seat, a checklist on his lap. The officer looked up, straightening when he saw his guest. "Colonel O’Neill?"

"At ease, Major."

"We're ready to leave as soon as you take your seat, Sir."

"Good. Flight time?"

"Four hours, Sir. We'll land at Reagan International, it's closest to the White House."

"Good, then, carry on, Major."

Jack walked back past the door and into the lounge. Weir was already seated in one of the plush chairs. He took a window seat across from her, stretching out his long legs luxuriously. "Niiiice," he noted. While it wasn't Air Force One, the plane *was* definitely a VIP ride, not one of the no-frills cargo planes he'd traveled in throughout most of his career.

Watching out the window, he saw the stairs being wheeled away and ground crew signaling the pilots. The engines roared into life, and within moments, the plane began taxiing out toward the runway.

*******

He couldn't sleep during the flight. Hell, he'd been 'sleeping' for weeks and was slept out. As soon as they were at cruising altitude, Jack unbuckled his seat belt and explored the plane. Finally, he headed back up to the cockpit and talked quietly with the pilot.

********

At last, the young Captain who was co-pilot requested over the intercom, "Sir, Ma'am, we're cleared for landing. We need you to take your seats and buckle your seatbelts, please."

The plane circled over the city where lights were coming to life as dusk fell. They touched down softly and taxied to the special gate reserved for military flights.

A limo waited at the base of the stairs. For an awful moment, Jack recalled his last attempt to visit the White House, and the man who'd blocked that attempt. In all that had happened in the past few weeks, he hadn't had a chance to ask about Kinsey. He really didn't want to know, actually, just as long as he wasn't going to come face to face with the egomaniac tonight, because Jack wasn't at all sure he could stop himself from doing something stupid. Like telling the man, and the whole room, what he thought of the scum-sucking fool. Or punching the man. Which probably wouldn’t go over real well, and make his career as a general the shortest one in history.

***********

He'd been to the White House once before, way back in the 1960s, on a family trip with his parents. They'd stood in line for a couple of hours for the privilege of walking through a few of the rooms.

His Mom had loved it.

He remembered thinking the long, wide hallways would have been a great place for a hockey game. Mostly, though, he'd been bored.

But not this time.

He felt a little knot begin to form in his stomach as the limo rolled up the driveway and stopped under the portico.

A Marine officer opened the door of the car and gave Dr. Weir a hand.

Jack stepped out after her, buttoning his jacket, his gaze drifting up to look over the building.

"Sir, Ma'am, if you'll follow me, you can freshen up before dinner," the Marine lead them up several low steps and into the mansion. The halls were bustling with activity, harried-looking people coming and going. Jack recognized a few of the faces from the evening news.

They walked down a long corridor, then turned into a small room.

"The President will see you in his office before dinner, Colonel O'Neill," the Marine informed him. "Someone will come for you when he's ready."

Dr. Weir excused herself and headed for the ladies room.

Jack paced.

A half hour went by. Dr. Weir returned, hair freshly combed, make-up freshened.

Jack continued pacing.

"Relax, Colonel," Weir suggested.

O'Neill turned to her, shaking his head no.

"It's only the President, Colonel."

"You've met him?"

"Yes, actually. When he gave me the job at the SGC. In fact, I think you'll like him."

Jack shook his head. *Like* a politician? *That* would be the day. "Doubtful, Doctor."

"Well, why don't you just give him the benefit of the doubt? After all, he did pick you."

"Which says something about his sanity. Or his character."

Weir stared at him. "You really don't get it, do you, Colonel?"

"Get what?" He'd picked up a small vase from a table, tracing his long fingers across the delicate flower design painted on it.

"How special you are. What incredible things you've done."

"I'm just a soldier, Ma'am, doing his duty."

"Right," she smiled. "And I’m just a quiet little country girl from Pennsylvania."

**********

Just then, someone knocked on the door. It wasn't the Marine this time, but a well-dressed woman in a neat business suit. "The President will see you now, Colonel O'Neill."

He shortened his stride to walk beside her through the hallways. The corridors weren't as busy now, but as they passed office after office, he could see a lot of people still at work.

Finally, they arrived at another door.

"Just knock, Colonel," the woman told him and left.

For the twentieth time, he straightened his tie, brushed his hands across his lapels, and checked the alignment of his salad bar.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked.

"Come in," a now familiar voice called out.

Jack stepped in to the Oval Office.

He'd seen it on TV hundreds of times, but there was something about the place, something he could feel, the history and the power.

"Colonel O'Neill," a surprisingly short, smiling man stepped toward him, hand outstretched. "It’s good to finally meet you in person."

Jack shook the offered hand. "Likewise, Mr. President. Niiiiiice place," he added, looking around the world famous room appreciatively.

"It has its advantages."

Hayes waved him toward a sofa, taking a chair across from it.

"First visit to the Oval Office, Colonel?"

"Yes, Sir."

"It can be a bit intimidating at first sight."

"The décor is nice. The carpet might be a bit ostentatious, though."

The President chuckled. "Considering some of the places you've been and the things you've seen, Colonel, I'm thinking it must seem rather ordinary."

"Not in the slightest, Sir."

"We’ve had some, ah, interesting visitors here recently," Henry Hayes paused. "I met your friend, Anubis, well, the late Anubis, thanks to you."

O’Neill shrugged. "Thanks to the Ancients, actually."

"True. But I don’t think there will ever be another dispute in this government about the reality of what’s out there."

"It’s about time."

"I’m not from Missouri, Colonel, but like most people, I have to be shown, not told. All the reports, all the stories, about what your people found out there, well, they’re just so much science fiction until a real genuine alien is standing across the room from you, cloak and all. I don’t have to tell you that what happened changed the minds of a lot of people. Irrevocably."

"Good." The officer nodded.

Hayes smiled. "Now, Jack, I can call you Jack, can't I?"

"Of course, Sir."

"I've heard a lot about you."

O'Neill rolled his eyes. "Don't believe all of it, Mr. President."

The President's eyes crinkled with good humor. "I never do. I prefer to reserve judgement for myself. Though I must say you have a major fan club in the Pentagon."

That statement surprised the Colonel completely. "I do?"

"Well, there's George, and then there's George, and General Jumper and even General Ryan put in a good word." Hayes was studying the officer before him, assessing. "But first, before we move on to this evening's formalities, I'd like to thank you, not just as your President, but also as an American. You saved our asses once again, Colonel."

"There were a lot of people involved in the ass-saving, Sir. I couldn't have done any of it without my team, General Hammond, and all the personnel at the SGC. Dr. Weir, too."

"She is a smart one, isn't she?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Despite the misgivings of many people, it turns out she was a good choice. As you will be, Jack."

"I, uh-"

For the first time, Hayes could see genuine consternation on the man's features. Good. The officer didn't think he was perfect, or omniscient. "You *are* going to accept, aren't you?"

Jack straightened his shoulders. "Yes, Sir."

"Good, then. Like Dr. Weir told you, I know we can’t really ever repay you for the risks you’ve taken. But the good doctor did say that ‘Brigadier General’ *was* one of the things on your wish list."

"If I can’t just be the Great and Powerful Oz."

The President did a doubletake. "I think that title's been taken, son."

"I *did* think that would be asking for a bit much, Sir." Jack explained hastily. "Lord Mayor of Springfield was my second choice, but I didn’t think that one's available, either."

"Springfield? Illinois?"

"Springfield, as in The Simpsons," Jack explained.

"Ah, no, sorry, can't arrange that. Anything on your list I *could* help with?"

"Cubs winning the World Series?"

"Even as President, I can't do that."

"An Oscar for Mary Steenburgen?"

"Out of my hands, I'm only President of the United States, not of the Screen Actors Guild."

"Darn." O’Neill looked downcast. "How about the Stanley Cup as a plant stand for my office?"

"I think the Canadians might object."

The tall officer shrugged. "It was just a thought."

"Anything else I can help with?"

"Guess not then."

"Well, Brigadier General may be a poor substitute for the World Series or the Stanley Cup, but it is something that I definitely *can* take care of for you. But this needs an audience. So I've asked a few people to join us." Hayes turned to his desk and tapped a button on his phone console. "Heather, ask the others in, would you please?"

"I'm really not much into crowds, Sir," Jack objected. "Really."

"Oh, I think you'll like this crowd," the President hinted.

The door opened, and people began entering the office. An Army General came through first, one of the Joint Chiefs Jack was sure. Then the Secretary of Defense. General Joe Jumper. General Ryan, and Dr. Weir. General Hammond followed, wearing a grin that spread across his whole face. And trailing behind, Teal'c, Daniel and Carter.

He gulped. "You didn't invite Mary Steenburgen by any chance, did you, Mr. President?"

"Sorry, Jack, but she was busy."

The room filled quickly. George Hammond stepped forward to stand beside O'Neill. "It's good to see you, Jack. How are you feeling?"

"Rather like the canary about to get swallowed by the cat," he answered honestly.

"You'll get over it," Hammond whispered.

"I don't think so. But thank you, Sir. For everything."

Hammond smiled warmly. "You deserve it and..."

Suddenly, a bright beam of light illuminated the room, a familiar soft chiming sound causing Jack to spin around just in time to see a small gray shape materialize beside the massive oak desk.

The alien nodded toward O’Neill and Hammond before turning toward the President, bowing slightly. "I am Thor, Supreme Commander of the Asgaard fleet, and friend of O’Neill."

"Welcome. I’m President Henry Hayes, and I’m very glad you were able to join us this evening, Supreme Commander." Hayes started forward, hand extended, then suddenly remembered his last encounter with an alien. "Real or hologram?" he whispered at O'Neill.

"Oh, he's real," Jack answered softly, smiling.

"Indeed I am, Mr. President. You may call me Thor. I am honored to be invited. I would not miss such an important occasion," the small alien turned to nod at Hammond, and then bowed slightly at O’Neill. "O’Neill has not only saved his own planet, but once again has been instrumental in saving the Asgaard home world. Among my race, he is legendary."

Jack waved a hand in the air, embarrassed at the praise. "My whole team…is… legendary… on the Asgaard planets. Sir." He looked around. "Sirs," he amended quickly.

"Okay then, now that our last guest has arrived, if everyone will come to attention," Hayes began, waiting until the room got quiet before continuing. "As President of the United States, I hereby authorize Colonel Jack O’Neill’s immediate promotion to the rank of Brigadier General. He has fulfilled tasks and duties well beyond the usual responsibilities expected of his rank of Colonel. It is with great pleasure that I bestow upon Jack O’Neill the responsibilities, the respect and the rank of Brigadier General."

Jack didn't really hear the words. He was watching George Hammond as the bald Texan pulled a small box from his pocket.

"These were mine, Jack, pinned on me at my promotion to General," George Hammond explained softly as he took the small silver baubles out of the box, handing one to the President. "I'm proud to pass them on to you."

Unable to speak past his dry throat, O'Neill simply nodded as Hammond reached up to remove the silver eagles from Jack’s broad shoulders. The last rays of sunlight glinted off the gleaming silver as Hayes set the first star on his right shoulder and Hammond pinned the second on Jack's left shoulder.

For a moment, he thought the tiny things must have been made out of naquadah. They weighed a ton. They carried the weight of the world, actually. He could feel the burden of command settle onto his shoulders, and for a moment, it scared him right through to the core… so much responsibility, so many lives, the fate of the world, resting in his scarred, battered, imperfect hands.

"Take a deep breath, Jack," Hammond whispered, saluting.

O’Neill was so lost in the moment that he almost missed the gesture, responding automatically. He inhaled sharply, a shaky breath, but he pulled air into his lungs and reminded himself that every promotion, every upward move, had meant more responsibility, more duty, more risk, and more reward.

He could do this.

He would do this.

Because no one cared more than he that the SGC succeeded.

He’d made that his life’s mission eight years ago.

He’d had the best as tutor and teacher and mentor for these years, and he owed it to Hammond, and his team and all of the SGC, to carry on that work.

To take care of them.

"Now, raise your right hand and repeat after me. I, insert name…" Hammond prompted.

Hayes cleared his throat, and the room suddenly fell silent. "I think General Hammond has a few words to say…" The President waved a hand at the smiling Texan who stepped to the front of the room.

"I don’t have to recount for anyone in this room, the contributions that Jack O’Neill has made to the United States Air Force, Stargate Command, this country, and this world. He has, quite literally, saved us all, and more than once. Throughout his long career, he has served with honor, integrity, loyalty and dedication above and beyond the call of duty, time and time again. He has carried out my orders, shown remarkable leadership and initiative in a truly unique and dangerous assignment, and yes," he let the humor show in his voice for a moment, "sometimes, in fact oftentimes, tried my patience. But I have always known that I could rely upon him. As I will continue to rely upon him as he takes on his new duties. The United States Air Force and Stargate Command are lucky to have him."

Jack was staring at the elaborate design on the pristine floor.

Then the President stepped to O’Neill’s side, a champagne class in hand, handing another to the surprised officer who took it. Hayes was smiling, a genuine smile, as he lifted his glass to toast the new general. "It’s my honor and privilege to salute you, Brigadier General Jack O’Neill." He dropped his voice so only O’Neill could hear. "Enjoy this evening, and this little party, because there’s a lot of work waiting for you back in Colorado Springs."

The President then led the small group, with the exception of Thor, who had made his apologies and returned to his ship, from the Oval Office into a room where dinner awaited. Jack O’Neill ate, but what he ate, he couldn’t have recalled ten minutes later. The whole thing was surreal. Occasionally, he rolled his eyes sideways to look at his shoulders and yup, the tiny silver stars were still there.

White House. Stars. General. Oiy.

Dinner finished, people stood around the room in clusters, making small talk.

Suddenly needing a moment to clear his head, to take it all in, Jack set his coffee cup on a table and slipped out of the room, nodding at the guard in the hallway. Spotting the doors, he walked outside into a small covered walkway, the smell of roses intense. He took a deep breath of the cool night air.

When he’d first joined the Air Force, truthfully, all he’d wanted was to fly jets, the fastest, sleekest, hottest jets. Then he’d discovered the adrenaline rush of Special Ops. He hadn’t imagined how fast 20 years could fly by, and then 30. He’d always planned to retire when he had his 20 in, spend his time with his family making up for all that they’d missed, and then fate had come along and stripped away his family. There’d been nothing else, then, when he returned to the Air Force, no distractions, no other thought than finding an end that would see Sara cared for and bring no dishonor to his family.

The Stargate program had been a rebirth.

So many unbelievable things had happened since, culminating in this unimaginable day, this amazing honor, and this incredible burden.

Sure, he’d always loved the Air Force, something about pledging honor and duty had touched his soul just as the adrenaline rush captivated his spirit. He’d never told anyone that, either.

Brigadier General Jack O’Neill.

An amazing yet bittersweet accomplishment.

Suddenly, his mind was filled with the thought of all those who weren’t here to share this day with him.

Kawalsky would laugh at him, slap his shoulder and say something stupid, like, 'the big wazoos finally wised up and put a real soldier in charge.'

Sara would smile proudly and whisper in his ear as she smoothed the collar of his shirt and straightened his tie. 'I always knew you could.' When she uttered those words to him, they wouldn’t have been a joke, but sincere and heartfelt, because she’d always believed in him.

Frank Cromwell would grin and claim "you couldn’t have done it without me, buddy.'

His Mom, bless her soul, would be standing in the front row, proudly telling everyone in earshot that this was her son.

His Dad, well, the old man would have been gruff, his words mocking. Jack could all but hear him say, ‘what’s the Air Force coming to these days, making the likes of you a General? Must be hard up for real soldiers, boy.' Shaking his head in disbelief but inwardly proud.

And Charlie, oh God, Charlie would probably be hanging out in the back of the room, anxious for the stupid show to be over so he could get out of the stupid suit and back to the important stuff in life. Like baseball, fast cars and girls. Jack hoped, though, there’d have been a moment of pride mixed in there, too.

But none of them were a part of his life anymore. None of them were there to mark the day, to share in his moment, to stand beside him as they’d stood with him for so many of the difficult years that had brought him to this honor.

"Jack?"

He spun around in surprise, finding General Hammond in the doorway behind him. He’d been so deep in thought that he hadn’t even heard the door open. "Sir?"

"Thought I might find you out here. Everything okay?"

"Just needed a moment to think. The amount of brass in that room is blinding."

"I know you too well to think you’d be dazzled by them, Jack."

O’Neill nodded. "I keep waiting for someone to jump up and shout, ‘April fool.’ And sort of wishing they would."

"Second thoughts?"

"Third and fourth thoughts, actually, Sir."

"I’ve been where you are, Jack. No one feels ready, at least no one with an ounce of sense."

"I’m not sure I’ve got that much."

"Jack, I won’t pretend that there aren’t men smarter than you, or those who aren't more proper, by-the-book officers. And I won’t lie and tell you this job will be easy, because it won’t be. There will be parts of it you’ll love and parts you’ll hate. But I wouldn’t have suggested you for the job if I didn’t know you could do it."

For a moment, O’Neill let the self-doubt show. "I wish *I* knew."

"You will succeed, Jack. You’ll grow into it, because you have that indefinable something. It can’t be taught, and it can’t be bought, and it can’t be given. Some men are born with it, and life hones it, like forging iron into steel." George paused. In the dark, he couldn’t see O'Neill's shadowed eyes, but he knew what was there. He knew their depths, just as he knew the courage and the dedication of the man who stood before him. He knew Jack O’Neill’s best qualities, and his worst, and he knew that, despite the man’s frequently maddening behavior, the former truly did far outweigh the latter. "And Jack, that promise of patience, latitude, and understanding is still good. It always will be."

"I’m sure I’ll need it."

Hammond patted him on the shoulder. "You will. Now, let’s get back to the party before they miss the guest of honor."

"Yes, Sir." Jack turned to follow, then paused for a moment as the light once more glinted off the unfamiliar new baubles on his shoulder.

Stars.

Stars had always held special meaning for him: learning to find his way by the stars as a boy hiking through the woods of Minnesota; gazing at the stars from the rooftop retreat that had been his haven during the dark days of his life; and, for the past eight years, traveling among the stars.

Now, two of them were his, symbols of all he had achieved and the duty he honored above all other things.

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The End