Title: His Father's Son

Author: BadgerGater

Email: BadgerGater@cs.com

Category: Angst, heavy angst

Rating: PG, Jack's mouth, again

Season: Three, but could be later

Spoilers: None

Summary: Jack has to deal with a painful issue from his past

Warnings: Leaving canon, making up my own back story

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.

Authors Notes: Pure speculation. I don't think we'll ever meet Jack's family on the series, so I decided to create one for him, and some history too, that helps explain what made him who he is

What do you think, campers? Tell me. Love mail.

"Come in, Jack. Have a seat."

Oh uh. Jack. Mean's it's personal. Shit, I thought as I entered the office of General George Hammond, my Commanding Officer.

Whatever this was, it didn't look good. Hammond had a particularly somber look on his face.

I did a quick mental review of the last couple of days. I couldn't think of anything I'd done that would be earning me that look, hoped it was nothing Daniel, Carter or Teal'c had done either, since if my team was in trouble, I was in trouble.

Turned out to be worse than that. It was personal, my own personal... Well, you'll hear the story.

"Jack, I have a message from the Red Cross, relayed through the Pentagon. Seems someone has had to go to an awful lot of trouble to track you down with a personal emergency message."

See, that word personal, keeps coming back. I hate it. Means trouble. Always.

"You're supposed to call a Susan McDonnell, in Chicago. Name ring a bell?"

I took the sheet of paper with the phone number, stared at it a minute before answering. "Ah, yeah." Hammond knew I was from Chicago, personal emergency message. Hmm, bet he didn't even know I had family back there. He knew now. Damn.

"She's my sister, Sir."

Judging by the look on Hammond's face, I think I could have knocked him over with a feather. I'm rather famous for my closed mouth attitude toward my personal life, especially my family. Hell, even I'd had to think a moment about the name, since I'd never met the guy Susie married. I wasn't invited to the wedding and wouldn't have gone it I had been. Another ugly family story, I thought grimly.

"What's this about, Sir?"

"I don't know, Son, just call, please?" Hammond waved, offering his phone.

I sighed. "General, no offense intended, Sir, but I would rather do this in private."

He nodded, "of course. Take all the time you need," and he walked out, leaving me in his office. I closed the door, dialed the number, and a voice I hadn't heard since she was a little girl answered. "Hello."

"Susie? This is Jack."

Dead silence on the other end. Well, she'd contacted me. "What is this about?" I asked.

I heard her clear her throat. "Good to talk to you, too, brother." I had expected the coldness in her voice.

Yeah, okay so I'd burned a few bridges, last time I'd spoken to any of them.

"I had a hell of a hard time tracking you down. I finally had to turn to the Red Cross."

"Sorry. What do you need?"

"Jack, it's Dad. He's asking to see you."

Oh for crying out loud. "What does he want?"

"He wants to see you."

"What for?"

"What for? He's your father..."

"That's not what he said the last time I saw him." But then of course, she wouldn't know that, she was just a kid. At least, I hoped her innocent ears hadn't heard that ugly, nasty and bitter confrontation between her father and her big brother.

"Jack, you are such a bastard..." Wonder who told her that?

"No, Susie, I'm just my father's son, through and through." I stopped myself, before I said more. I swiped a hand tiredly through my gray hair, and lowered my voice. "What's the deal?"

There was a quiver in her voice. "He's dying. They really don't know how he's held on this long. I, I think he's been waiting for you." She stopped, then her voice changed too. "Jack, please. He wants to see you before he dies. You don't have to talk to or see any of the rest of us, if you don't want to. But please."

I've had enough of death, enough of watching people die. Now my family wants me to come home to watch another person die? I didn't want to, didn't want to see him, or them. And I knew I had to.

I sighed. She heard, "okay, then, forget it..."

"Susie, I'll come." Jack, you fool, why did you say that? I chastised myself. "Look, I'll have to ask for emergency leave, but I don't think it will be a problem. I'll be on the next flight."

Her voice had softened, and I realized it must have been hard for her, to work up her courage to call me. She hardly knew me, she'd been so young when I left home. She couldn't possibly remember much except that rebellious streak, the constant bickering, the tension between me and Dad. I hoped it had gotten better, after I left. Joe had said it did, but then, Joe might have just said that, to ease my mind. And she'd only ever heard everyone else's side of the story, our father's, Pat's, Joe's, even Bridgett's. I don't know what any of them might have said. I doubt Mom ever spoke about it, even if she'd been able to stick up for me.

Oh hell. "Where do I go?"

"He's at St. Mary's, the nursing center, down by the school."

"I remember."

"Thanks, Jack."

"Yeah, well."

I hung up, walked out into the briefing room where Hammond was reading a report. "Sir, I need a couple of days leave."

"Colonel, your team is scheduled to go to P4D-612 tomorrow."

"I know, General. I'll be back as soon as I can, but it's a family emergency, Sir. My father is dying and he's asked to see me."

If Hammond had looked surprised before, he looked positively shocked now. "Of course, Colonel. Get packed. I'll check on a transport; we should be able to get you on a flight out of here tonight."

<><><><><>

I ended up flying commercial. I hadn't done that in a long time, but it was nice, meant I could travel civilian. I was traveling light, couple of changes of clothes, not much because I wasn't planning on staying long. I settled into my seat and tried to sleep on the long trip across the plains to my home town, Chicago, the Windy City, the home of the Cubs, and all the bitter memories there.

Surprisingly, Susie was at the airport to meet my flight. I walked right past her, not recognizing her, but she spotted me and hollered my name. I turned back. Well, I can't say it was a joyous reunion, but it was more than civil. I walked up to her, uncertainly, but she gave me a hug. "It's been a long time, Jack."

"Yeah."

"I'd know you anywhere," she said softly. "You look just like Joe."

"Even the gray hair?"

She laughed. "That too."

"Poor guy." I smiled. I held her out at arm's length. " You look great."

"Thanks." She hugged me again. "I really am glad to see you, Jack."

That was nice. At least someone in the family was.

We picked up my bag, retrieved her vehicle from the O'Hare Airport parking garage, and left in her car, taking the long drive on the expressway around downtown. The city hadn't changed much, in 25 years, I thought. A little bigger, a little noisier, a little dirtier. A little older and grayer, like me, I thought sadly.

"So, what is it you do?" I asked, figuring to make small talk so I wouldn't have to listen to the silence.

"I'm a cop."

I laughed. "You too?"

She smiled. "Runs in the family."

"Not always."

"Well, you're not so far from being a cop yourself, being in the Air Force."

"Hunh," boy, wouldn't she be surprised how far from cop my work was.

"So, you police the skies, instead of the cities. Still protecting people, still looking out for everyone else." I looked at her appraisingly. "Oh, I was little, but I remember, how you were always the one who stood between us and him."

I was surprised. "So, how can you defend him, Susie?"

"Jack, he's our father. And no, I didn't always get along with him either. But he never hit us, he never hurt any of us, he put a roof over our heads, sent us to school..."

"Treated Mom like dirt..." I said bitterly.

"Never in front of me."

"Probably not," I thought, remembering what today would be called verbal abuse, the cold way he'd treated her. People wonder why I hide behind the sarcasm, can't talk about my feelings? Learned it from him, I did, much as I hated to admit it.

<><><><><>

When we pulled up in front of the nursing home, she offered to go in with me. "No thanks, I'll get a cab to a hotel when I'm done."

She looked squarely at me. "You don't have to, you know. We've got plenty of room."

"I don't want to impose."

"You wouldn't be."

I shrugged. "I think it would be better. I don't plan to stay long."

"The others would like to see you, too."

"Now that I doubt," the words slipped out.

"That's not true, Jack. You are our brother, after all. It's been a long time, time enough to let bygones be bygones, you know. I'm sure you had your reasons."

No, I didn't know. Maybe I'm just too good at carrying grudges. Maybe I still don't know, after all this time, how to let go of my anger. I leaned over, kissed my little sister on the cheek, and climbed out of her car.

<><><><><>

I hate those places, where they warehouse people, the sick and the dying, hiding them away from the public eye. I went up to the third floor and stopped at the desk. A woman dressed in a pink flowered outfit turned around, did a bit of a double take at me, then said. "Hello?"

I read her name tag, LPN Rita Malone. "Rita, I'm looking for John O'Neill's room."

"That would be 342. Right down that hall to the left. It's awfully late for visitors, but..."

"I'm his son, I just got here from Colorado..."

"In cases like this (for the dying, I thought) we do make exceptions. But you will have to wait a few moments, Father is in with him."

"Sure." I paced down the cold, linoleum hallway, behind LPN Malone, glad to stretch my legs after all those hours on airplanes and in cars. Besides, I was really in no hurry to go into that room, to face my past.

I heard quiet voices when Rita opened the door, but I turned away, walked toward the far end of the hallway, then slowly started back.

She left the room. "You can go in as soon as Father leaves."

I stood, waiting, leaning against the wall, steeling myself, trying to think of something to say, since during the whole four hour flight I'd come up with nothing but a blank. And then the door opened and I was staring at a face that, just like Susie had said, looked remarkably like mine. It should. After all, he was my brother and we were only 11 months apart in age.

Brown eyes stared into mine in surprise.

I nodded, "Father."

"I'd have thought you could at least call your brother by his name, Jack," he said, and reached out to hug me.

I couldn't speak. Our last parting had been so bitter, so nasty, after Charlie's funeral, when in my impotent rage and despair at losing my son, I'd lashed out at my brother, and I knew I'd wounded him terribly with my words.

"Look, you need to go in, but we'll talk later. I'll wait for you."

"If you want."

"Of course." Joe looked past me into the room. "He doesn't have long. It really means a lot, that you came. Thank you."

I shrugged.

"I know it was difficult between.."

"Difficult?"

"I know this is hard, but you'll be glad in the end that you came, Jack." He squeezed my arm and propelled me through the door, pushing me into a chair, then left.

My Father didn't much resemble the man I remembered. Emphysema and end stage heart failure had robbed him of the strength and power which were my overriding memories of him as a strong, forceful, bullying man. One who wanted his sons to be the same, to be tough and strong and unemotional like he was. Well, he'd partly gotten his wish. He'd taught me to bury my emotions, and he'd made me tough, but he'd also made me hate him.

Now is no time for that, Jack.

The still form on the bed, cadaverously thin, opened its eyes.

"Hello, Dad, it's me, Jack." Bite back the sarcasm, mister, now is not the time. Get this over with and get the hell out of here, I ordered myself.

"Jack?" even the voice was a mere whisper of the strong man he had been. A hand, more like a claw, reached out to take hold of my wrist.

I had no words. I rarely do, even at the best of times, at least, nothing that isn't sarcastic. One of those self-defense mechanisms he'd taught me, I'd realized.

"Son?"

"Oh, changed your mind, did you?" I hadn't meant to say the words, but my smart mouth got the better of me, and they were out, before I could stop them. It was like I had slapped him in the face. He recoiled, closed his eyes.

His voice was so quiet, against the background hiss of the machines that were helping him breathe, that I could barely hear his words. "I deserved that."

Okay, yeah you did. But I didn't say anything.

"Thank you.... for coming."

I still said nothing, what would I say? I hadn't come for him, I came I suppose, to settle my own issues with the others.

"I'm sorry about your boy."

My heart tripped. I had despised this man, for so long, for being such a rotten father, and in one little sentence he had beaten me again. Because, no matter how bitter I was about the way he treated his kids, at least he hadn't gotten any of us killed. And that was more than I could say for my own failings as a father. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

"Sorry," he murmured.

Yeah, easy for him to be sorry now. I knew all about sorry, how easy it was to be sorry afterwards, when the damage was done and nothing could change it or fix it or make amends.

I wanted to leave, but he still had his fingers wrapped around my wrist, the long skin and bone fingers and paper thin skin of the elderly.

"Jack," the voice was thin, tired.

"Yes, Dad. It's me."

So, I sat on the chair and listened to him breathe, one rasping heavy hard breath after another, while I remembered:

It was my senior year in high school, not that I liked school much, but I loved sports, and kept my grades up just enough to be sure I stayed eligible to play. And then there was Colleen Duffy, the love of my life, or so I thought in my hormone soaked 17-year old mind. Besides, school was better than being home with my old man, Officer John O'Neill, Chicago PD. Second generation CPD officer and determined his eldest son should be the start of generation three. Except, of course, like every other decision regarding his family, he hadn't bothered to consult me about what I wanted. What I wanted was out: I wanted far away places, action, adventure and a life of freedom, a chance to sow my wild oats without Dad the cop looking over my shoulder.

It's funny, how a simple action by a stupid, thoughtless kid can lead to things never dreamed of, because if I hadn't done what I did that night, I probably wouldn't be Colonel Jack O'Neill, interstellar traveler, a man who has seen more wonders in the universe than any single human being has a right to witness.

And it had all started with a felony.

I'd been 17 and in love with Colleen, and we had a date on Saturday night for her 17th birthday. Dad and I had an uneasy truce, most of the time. I'd saved some money for that date, and, by taking on every nasty job around the house from taking out the garbage to raking every leaf in the back yard to pledging to shovel snow all winter, I had persuaded Dad to loan me the car.

I don't even remember what the argument was about, something petty I'm sure, because that's all it ever took between Dad and me, but the afternoon of that date with lovely Colleen Duffy, my father and I had a shouting match over something, and he reneged on his deal. No car.

It was a tragedy, in Jack O'Neill's 17 year old mind. Colleen wouldn't understand, neither would my best friend Tom and his girl Donna who were supposed to go with us.

And then I thought of an answer. I used to shovel snow for Mrs. Murphey, who lived up the street, a sweet little old widow lady who got a kick out of the O'Neill kids. And, in her backyard, right off the alley behind Keeley Ave., she had a garage and a car in it, a 1963 Plymouth her husband had bought the year before he died. She drove it about once a month, and the rest of the time it sat in that garage. She wouldn't notice if I used it, if I borrowed it just for one night. I'd bring it back with the gas tank full, and no one would be the wiser.

So, just after dark that Saturday night in November of 1973 I did the stupidest, most bone-headed thing of my life. I snuck into Mrs. Murphey's garage, hotwired the Plymouth, and went on a date. We had a great time, the four of us, and I'd have gotten away with it, except for accidentally running that red light over on Halsey.

When I saw the flashing red lights in my rearview mirror, I thought I was going to die.

The only thing that saved me was that Officer McNally knew my father. When they hauled me in handcuffs down to the station house, he put me in a room, not a jail cell, and left me for my father. I'd rather have been in jail.

My father came in hours later, took one look at my face, and walked back out. I imagine he didn't trust himself alone with me. They came back in together, McNally and my father, and I defiantly told them the truth. No I didn't have Mrs. Murphey's permission to use the car. No, I wasn't stealing it, I was going to take it back and she wouldn't be the wiser and no one would have been hurt.

There was a black look on my father's face. The only words he said, before walking out the second time, was "you disappoint me, boy."

After a while, McNally came back, with Sgt. Mike Flannery, my father's boss. His face was grim, and he gave me a choice. "Because of who your father is, and not wanting to see a good cop be embarrassed, I am willing to give you a chance. If I record this arrest, it goes down as felony car theft and you will go to jail. Your other choice is to immediately enlist in the military.

Great choices, I thought, tempted to let them go ahead with the first, just because I knew how much it would embarrass my father. And then I realized that would be a really dumb thing to do. "I'll enlist," I said.

And so I did. The next day, after he'd let me spend the night in jail, to teach me a lesson he said, my father signed the papers to allow his less than 18 year old son to join the service. We'd even argued about that, because he wanted me to join the Navy. So just to spite him, I'd picked the Air Force.

When we got home, a bitter shouting match followed in the living room as he'd lit into me with a lecture about how I'd embarrassed him in front of his fellow officers and he'd never live down what his kid had done. It was all about him, as it always was.

The last words I'd exchanged with my father, the morning I was to leave for Texas and Air Force basic training, I'd told him to go to hell. He told me to get the hell out, because I was no son of his.

So yeah, I'd left for the Air Force with an attitude, and determined to make him see that I wasn't the piss-poor excuse for a son he thought I was, that I was smart enough and tough enough and good enough to succeed in the military. All I took with me were bitter memories, of the things he'd said to me, of the way he'd pushed me out the door so fast I'd never even had time to say goodbye to my high school buddies or that girl I'd thought I was in love with.

And here I was 45 years old, and still trying to prove that I wasn't some stupid, snot nosed kid who wasn't worthy of his family name.

I hadn't learned much in all those years, had I?

I sat there all night, and at dawn, when the nursing shift changed, they kicked me out to the hallway. He hadn't awakened again. Patrick, my youngest brother, and my sisters Bridgett and Susie, were all in the hall, where we exchanged a few words before they went in to his room. And then suddenly there was a lot of commotion, Joe went in to be with him, and then he was gone.

<><><><><>

I went with Joe, to stay at the little house where he lived in a Chicago suburb, supplied by the church he ministered to. I'm sure he's a good priest, he's got all those characteristics that I lack. That's what's so interesting, you know. We look so much alike, people used to think we were twins. Except we act totally different. I got all the belligerance, the aggression, the smart mouth and the brooding. He got the caring, the ability to help people, the soothing touch and a way with words. If we didn't look so much alike, I'd have sworn we weren't even related, much less brothers.

I stayed for the funeral. I didn't want to, I hate funerals, but I had no choice. It was the whole police thing, his hat on the casket, bagpipes playing, his fellow officers at the wake and the memorial service, Patrick and Susie in their uniforms. I wore my uniform, I haven't got any other suit.

They did a whole flag ceremony, with the four blue stars on a white background of the Chicago city flag. An honor guard of officers folded the flag and handed it to me, as the oldest son. I accepted, then handed it to Pat and Susie. It would mean more to them than it ever would to me.

After, everyone went back to the house where he'd lived most of his life, the house I'd grown up in on the south side of Chicago. Patrick and his wife had bought it, when Dad got too ill to live there alone. It was very odd, being in that house again, after more than 25 years.

The strangest moment was when I came face to face with Officer McNally, who looked over my uniform with a glimmer of respect. "Remember me?" he asked.

"Of course, Sir, Officer McNally."

"Looks like you made a success of yourself, son, in the Air Force."

"I've done well enough."

"He was proud of you, you know."

I shrugged, no I didn't know, I thought, but didn't say it.

"We used to meet once a week, for cards, down at the pub, a bunch of us from station 49. He'd talk about you, what medals you won, your promotions. It meant a lot to him."

Then why couldn't he say it, I thought, why couldn't he tell me? Because, Jack, he's like you, or you're like him. He couldn't say what he felt either, couldn't tell you, couldn't break down the walls.

That was the moment I began to understand him, a least a little.

We buried him there, beside my Mother, who'd died long ago, while I was, well, shortly that four months I spent in the loving care of Saddam Hussein's henchmen. I never got a chance to say goodbye to her, and I hadn't even made it back to Chicago for her funeral, or for months after. My brothers and sisters, they hadn't understood and I couldn't tell them the real reason I wasn't there. How could I explain to them what a mess I was, how I was locked inside my own head, feeling nothing, going through the motions of living, unable to relate to anyone or anything. That's what four months as a prisoner in Iraq can do to you. I've never been able to talk about that time, so how could I have explained it to them?

They just knew that I wasn't there when they buried my mother, that I hadn't answered their calls to see her before she died, and it seemed like I didn't care. And they resented me for it, because they thought I didn't come to her because of my father. I don't even remember any more who said what, just that I couldn't explain and they didn't understand. Feelings got hurt. Things got pretty bitter.

So we had drifted farther and farther apart, and I felt like I had no family. And then, when Charlie died, someone, I'm not sure who, had called Joe, and he had flown out for the funeral.

I was such a mess, I don't even remember what I said to him, just that they were bitter and angry and hateful words because I was raging at everyone, at myself, at the world, at God for taking my son away. And Joe had taken the brunt of it. I knew I had hurt him, I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't stop myself. Worst of all, my stubborn, stiff-necked pride hadn't let me try to repair it.

Funny, but it was my father's final legacy that turned things around.

It was Joe who took me to the airport. We hadn't really talked about things, we had simply drifted into conversation and ignored the past, until my plane was ready to board.

As they called for my flight, I swallowed the lump in my throat, looked away, "Joe, I..." Words failed me, as they always do, when I need to tell someone something so important. I looked back at him, silently beseeching him to understand.

And of course, being Joe, he did. "I know you didn't mean what you said that day. You were hurt and you lashed out at the only one you could, Jack, and that's all right. I've forgiven you. God's forgiven you. Forgive yourself."

I wasn't about to start debating God and forgiveness with Joe. I never could out-talk him anyway, and I didn't want to hurt him more. "I'm sorry."

"I know. I knew it the minute the words were out of your mouth. I just kept praying for your soul. Every night, since then, I've prayed for you to find some peace. And I can see you finally have."

"It's taken a while," I admitted.

"Yes, it usually does." As they called my flight, he hugged me. "Jack, take care of yourself, huh? And don't be such a stranger." He pressed something small into my hand, and I looked down to see it was a St. Christopher medal. Ironic, the patron saint of travelers. Joe had no idea how far his brother traveled.

I grinned. "Thanks."

As I started to walk to the gate, I stopped, turned back. "You know Joe, those prayers? It wouldn't hurt to keep 'em up." Maybe his prayers, the prayers of someone like my good and decent and forgiving brother, maybe they did make a difference. I'd like to think so, for his sake.

FINIS