Stars, part Two: The Speech

Author: Badgergater

Email: [email protected]

Season: 8

Spoilers: New Order

Sequel/Series: Part of what is turning out to be the Stars series, though it does stand alone if you've seen the episode

Category: Missing scene, takes place after O’Neill is informed of his promotion, before he speaks to the SGC personnel

Summary: What happened after that White House promotion ceremony

Pairing: None (well, unless you count Mary Steenburgen)

Warnings: None, but this is Jack, so the language isn’t perfectly clean

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I know I don’t own Jack or anything else that has anything to do with Stargate. I'm just a poor and downtrodden fanfic writer…

Author’s Note: These early eps in S8 have been like the real Stargate SG-1 back again…

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An overnight stay at the White House hadn’t been on Jack O’Neill’s ‘rewards for saving the planet’ list.

But it was pretty cool nevertheless, sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom though, yeah, it would have been better if Mary Steenburgen had been there, too.

But that probably would have been asking too much.

Even for saving the world.

It *was* the White House, after all.

Breakfast with the President had sounded pretty cool, too. The food was good, the coffee was strong and he was sorry Teal’c wasn’t there because the donuts were first rate.

The conversation wasn’t, however.

Henry Hayes got right down to business before Jack had taken the first bite of his guacamole and cheese omelet.

"So, General, what are your plans for the SGC?"

Jack O’Neill kept chewing just to give himself a moment to think of an answer. "I thought we’d start with casual Fridays, Chicago-style pizza in the cafeteria and those cool new Simpson’s screensavers in the control room, you know, the ones with..." Jack let the rest of the sentence fade away. Apparently, Hayes wasn’t a man who went for humor first thing in the morning. Catching the Presidents’ frown, Jack quickly straightened his shoulders and contritely added, "Sir."

"General O’Neill," there was warning in the tone. "I haven’t got all day."

Jack cleared his throat. "Actually, Mr. President, I thought we’d pretty much follow General Hammond’s lead. We have good people in place, efficient operating systems and proven mission protocols. Our primary mission, of course, will continue to be the search for alien technologies and allies to aid us in defending the planet."

"What you found in Antarctica won’t be enough to defend Earth?"

"No, Sir. We don’t know if there’s anyone who can work the Ancients’ device, now that I no longer can. Or even if it will work again. It may have been a one shot cannon, out of ammo or out of power. Dr. Weir and her science team will be working on the answers but…" O’Neill shrugged.

"So what you’re telling me, Jack, is that Earth is no more secure today than it was before?"

"Correct, Sir. Although now we do have a bit of a reputation," the long-fingered hands made a quotes gesture on the last word. "The rest of the System Lords saw what we did to Anubis. And they don’t *know* that we may not be able to do it again."

"So we can bluff.

"You could call it that."

"What would you call it?" Hayes asked, staring pointedly at his new general.

"Risky, Mr. President. We aren’t bluffing from a good position, Sir, because if anyone ever calls that bluff, we’re screwed," Jack answered honestly.

"So the hand we’re holding isn’t a full house?"

"Not even close, Mr. President. It could be eights and aces, Sir."

"I hope not." Hayes smiled grimly. "Okay then General, find me that full house. Now," Hayes stood, "let’s go share the bad news."

**************

Jack spent the rest of the day in a series of meetings, first with the Cabinet and Joint Chiefs, then with an international delegation full of questions, most of which he couldn’t have answered even if he’d wanted to.

Long before the day was done, he had a raging headache and a deep regret that he’d taken on the job. If this was what being a general was all about, he wanted to go back to being a colonel.

But he was pretty damn sure the President wouldn’t let him.

Finally, the interminable meetings were over and he was alone. Gratefully, O’Neill loosened his tie and unbuttoned his jacket, slumping back in his chair with a sigh of relief.

"Long day?"

O’Neill jumped to his feet and spun around, drawing himself to attention when he realized he was face to face with the Air Force Chief of Staff. "Sir."

"Relax, Jack," The four star handed one of the cups of coffee he was carrying to O’Neill, then threw himself down in a chair across the table from Jack. "I know how you feel. You’ll get used to it."

"I will?"

"Yes. You’re in the club now," General Joe Jumper sipped his coffee, closing his eyes, his expression telling O’Neill that he, too, had a diplomacy induced headache. "And don’t forget, we’re all here to back you up. You haven’t been cast to the winds. Those of us who pressed the President to give you the job have a stake in your success, too."

Great, just what he needed, more pressure to succeed. "Yes, Sir."

Just then a Marine guard came to the door. "Generals, your car is here."

They rode together to the airport, where Jack boarded another AF plane and headed back to Peterson.

*****************

It was after midnight when O’Neill arrived back in Colorado Springs. During the trip, he’d finished up his meeting notes, written and rejected 42 drafts of the speech he was going to have to give at the SGC, and just touched the surface of the two foot tall stack of paperwork he’d been given before leaving Washington, D.C.

Oiy.

Halfway through the flight, deciding he couldn’t take anymore, he took two aspirin and a nap.

When he woke, the headache was gone but the whole of the last couple of months wasn’t, much to his regret.

A driver stood waiting as O’Neill deplaned, saluting smartly. Another thing he’d have to get used to, all that saluting. His arm was tired already.

"At ease, son."

"Where to, Sir?"

With a sigh he decided, "Better make it the base. Cheyenne Mountain."

************

Still in his dress blues, Jack checked in at the main level security desk.

"Good evening, Col-General," the surprised SF greeted him, correcting himself, smiling and snapping to attention.

He rode alone down to the first security station, passed another startled SF and traveled alone again down the second elevator.

***********

Jack emerged into the familiar underground corridors of the middle-of-the-night quiet SGC.

Funny, he thought it ought to seem different, but it didn’t.

The place looked the same.

Only he was different.

Detached, already.

Distant from these people he’d worked with.

There was a wariness in their greetings, which came with the territory, or the stars actually, he supposed.

After all, it was hard to think of a General as just another nose to the grindstone guy.

If only they knew, he thought as he strode across the briefing room and stopped in the doorway to Hammond’s office.

*His* office now, he corrected himself.

Now *that* was going to take some getting used to.

It was hard not to expect George Hammond to be there. Weir hadn’t been around long enough to change that image of the bald Texan who’d inhabited the room for so long.

It had been eight eventful years during which George had challenged him and tolerated him and listened to him and always treated him fairly, more than fairly most of the time, if he was honest with himself.

Leaving him huge shoes to fill. Jack recalled long ago, he and Sara taking Charlie to an amusement park during a trip back to Minnesota. There'd been a pair of immense shoes, Paul Bunyan's boots he thought they were. Charlie had stood in them, laughing. His whole body could have fit in one of those shoes.

That's how Jack felt right now.

Slowly, Jack walked in to the darkened office, leaving the lights off. Dim light from the gateroom below illuminated the room, making visible the bare walls and empty shelves. Weir had already packed her books and files.

The office stood ready and waiting.

For him.

Glad it was late and no one was there to watch, Jack walked around the back of the desk and tentatively sat down. It was strange, definitely strange, to be sitting there. Okay, so it wasn’t the first time. Once, all right, a couple of times, five or six maybe, when Hammond was gone, Jack had tried out the plush leather chair, just to see how things looked from that side of the desk. They hadn’t looked any different then.

They looked different now, though, because he wasn’t just sitting in that chair, it was his chair. His challenge. His job. His responsibility.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to back out, to tell the President and everyone else that he hadn’t been serious and it was all just a joke and he was just testing the waters… no, that visit to the White House had certainly been on the record.

Retreating was no longer an option.

He was stuck with the job.

Jack sat up straighter, placing his long hands on the polished wood of the desktop.

He squirmed uncomfortably, trying to fit into the chair. Well, now he knew his first order of business, get Siler in here to figure out how to raise the chair because this thing definitely wasn’t adjusted for his long legs.

He spun around 180 degrees, then completed the turn to once again sit facing forward. Nothing had changed. Still a desk in front of him, stacked high with paperwork.

Two hours later, sitting back to ease his tense back and shoulders, he felt like he’d accomplished nothing. The speech was still not done, the pile of reports and personnel folders he’d brought with him barely touched.

He needed a break. A bit more exploring, perhaps?

Opening the left hand desk drawer, he found it was empty.

The large right hand drawer contained another stack of file folders, each with a neat little note on the top: requires signature… please read and initial… answer needed asap… approval required… input requested…

Oiy. More work to do. A sudden, fervent wish to go back to being who he’d been washed through him, an ache for open skies and alien vistas. Hell, he’d rather get shot at than face another piece of paper.

Slamming the right-hand drawer shut, he opened the center one.

It too was barren except for a small folded note tucked inside, his name scrawled on the outside in George Hammond’s familiar hand.

O’Neill opened the folded over sheet.

"Right about now, I imagine you’re wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into," he read. "Take a deep breath, count to ten and remember, this is all about the good people who venture out there. And you know things about being out there that I never did."

"Yeah, but you knew things about being in here that I never will," Jack muttered.

"That is not true, O'Neill."

Jack jumped, nearly leaping out of the chair like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, then realizing it was now in fact his desk and his chair and he didn't have to get up. Besides, it was Teal'c standing in the doorway.

"Hey, T-man."

"You have returned."

Teal'c did have a way of stating the obvious that somehow wasn't stupid or offensive, Jack thought, wondering how he did it. "Yes I have."

"You are exploring your new accommodations."

"Yes."

"It does seem strange to see you there, O'Neill."

"Strange, indeed," Jack answered, still feeling like he shouldn't be there.

"You will do well."

The gray-haired head shook negatively. "Don't be so sure, Teal'c."

"For all my years on SG-1, you have been a courageous and capable team leader, formidable in battle."

"Battle I understand. It's all the rest," Jack waved a hand vaguely, "the politics, the budgets, the *paperwork*."

"You must simply do as you have done on SG-1."

"Which is what? Shoot them all?"

"Assign your people their proper roles. As the leader of SG-1, did you not rely on MajorCarter for her science knowledge, and Daniel Jackson for his ability to speak many languages?"

"Yes. So?"

"Now you must find others who excel at politics and budgets to assist you."

Jack looked up at the former First Prime. "Teal'c, that was…"

"Profound?" A flicker of what might have been a smile crossed the alien face.

"That's really good advice, actually." O'Neill sighed, waving a hand at the folders piled atop his desk. "Now if I can only find someone to read all these reports for me…"

"I do not believe that will be possible."

"No, I don’t imagine Cliff notes for Generals is available at Barnes and Noble." O’Neill sighed again, waving Teal’c at the chair across the wide expanse of the desk. "So, T-man, any good at writing speeches?"

"Regretfully, I am not."

"You helped Carter out, gave her a good idea with the one for Doc Fraiser."

"Indeed. I only reminded her of what she already knew."

"So remind me," Jack pleaded, waving a hand at the overflowing waste basket filled with crumpled sheets of his rejected ideas, "before I kill another tree."

"Tell them how you feel, O’Neill."

"Oh right. Real inspiring, telling them their new leader is scared witless."

"You are not."

"Ahh, yes. I’m just witless to start with."

"Some are fooled, others are not," the alien answered cryptically.

"Oh, now that’s helpful."

"Why did you agree to accept this position, O’Neill?"

"We talked about that already, Teal’c. Because I didn’t want the people here to get stuck with another clueless shrub like General Bauer. And because I wanted to do the fun stuff, like order the gate to kawoosh and insist on pumpkin pie on Thursdays."

Teal’c bowed slightly. "Then tell them, though perhaps different words would be helpful."

"I don’t think that’s what they want to hear from their new General, T."

"They want to hear that the O’Neill they know and respect remains the same person, even though he bears a new title. You must be who you are, even though you are now General O’Neill."

He’d never thought of it that way before, but Teal’c of course was right. This wasn’t about him, it had never been about him, it was about them, about the people he’d served with, the ones without whom he’d never have made it this far. He’d like to think he’d forged his own way, achieved his own success, but that would be a self-delusional lie of a magnitude not even Jack O’Neill at his most self-delusional could believe.

One man didn’t accomplish the mission, the team did, and the support personnel behind the team, and a smart man realized that and acknowledged it. He’d told that nosy reporter the same thing not so long ago for his documentary. Guess it *was* time for him to listen to himself.

Jack O’Neill owed everything to the people around him, and he knew it, and he knew he needed to tell them that, because he was going to need their help again.

To be the leader they needed, and deserved.

To be their voice to the Pentagon, the Joint Chiefs and the President.

To be on their six, twenty-four seven.

He would try to be what they needed him to be, because he owed it to them.

Quickly, he jotted down the words and knew, this time, they were right.

*****************

An hour later, changed into a clean shirt, he stood in the hallway outside the gateroom where the SGC personnel waited, assembled, to meet their new CO. For the tenth time he tightened the knot of his tie, smoothed the lines of his jacket and straightened the seam of his trousers, clearing his throat and reviewing the succinct statement he was about to make.

This was harder than facing enemy weapons.

The door opened. Taking a deep breath, he gathered up his resolve and strode into the room, up the ramp to the podium, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nervousness.

He hated public speaking, but as he looked out across the room, at the familiar faces looking up at him, he resolved once again to do his best for them, and repay all that he owed them.

///The End\\\