The Inevitability of Time

Author: BadgerGater

Email: BadgerGater@cs.com

Category: Angst

Rating: G

Pairing: None

Season: three

Summary: Word a Month Inevitability-- Jack's birthday prompts a bit of

introspection, and worry

Warnings: Danger, danger= Jack is thinking

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 (Heliopolis, Jack's Place

excepted) without the author's consent.

Authors Notes: for the Word a Month: Inevitability

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

Jack O'Neill was trying to ignore it.

Pretend it didn't exist.

Look the other way.

Simply will it out of existence.

Refuse to accept it.

Order it to another galaxy.

Didn't work of course.

Birthdays happen, he thought morosely, no matter how much you don't want them to.

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

Birthdays. Shit. They were okay for kids, youngsters, children, teenagers. Fine things to have, up until you were about 21, and you had all the important age-related things in life: a driver's license, an ID card that allowed you to buy beer, and the right to vote. After 21, what did birthday's get you? Huh? Another year older and not a damned thing to show for it,

except a few more wrinkles and a bit more gray hair, okay a lot more gray hair, all gray hair, just about.

Birthdays.

Bah humbug.

He hated the damn things.

They were nothing but trouble. People wanting to throw you parties you didn't want, celebrate things that weren't celebrate-able, entice you to drink too much beer, and he was way too old for the hangover that inevitably followed.

Jack O'Neill. Grump. Curmudgeon. Spoilsport.

Who'd have thought it? Maybe they had been right, back in the 60s, when they'd said never trust anyone over 30.

There was a time when he'd been hell on wheels for an excuse to celebrate, shit, hadn't even needed an excuse to celebrate, other than the fact he was still alive.

Somewhere along the way, he thought dismally, he'd grown up and grown old.

Old? Him? Jack O'Neill?

Couldn't be.

He was.

I'm not getting older, I'm getting better. What fool had coined that line? Huh? He thought savagely. Not him. He knew he wasn't getting better, at anything. Slower. More caustic. Less optimistic. Grayer. Darker. More inflexible and less tolerant. Left behind by all these young whiz kids and their fancy computerized warfare gizmos.

Maybe that's what happens when you get old.

He'd never thought about getting old, never thought it would happen to him, never looked that far ahead, never thought the day would come.

He didn't feel old. Tired, sometimes. Worn out. Beset on occasion, okay, many occasions, by aching knees and a sore back, but he'd accumulated that damage honestly enough.

And here he was, having just finished up another physical with DoctorFraiser, completed with far too many "hmms" and "ah hahs" and little unexplained frowns. Not to mention the unaccounted for need for a second physical just six months after the last one. As if he wasn't already routinely tested, scanned, poked and prodded more than anyone undergoing

experimental medical treatment.

And then this morning she'd come to his office and said, "Colonel, when you've got a few minutes, I need to talk to you."

So here he was sitting outside her office door like a ten year old on the way to the principal's office. See, he couldn't stop thinking about the age thing, not at all. Ten years old. God, he couldn't even remember when he was ten years old. He'd have been in the fourth grade, Sister Mary Margaret teaching him penmenship and despairing after his hideous handwriting, his

ceaseless restlessness and his already unrepentent soul. Calling him "Jonathan" in that sad voice, the one that seemed to say she knew he was going straight to Hell and it was such a shame. He hadn't thought about Sister Mary Margaret in a long time.

"Colonel?" Doc jolted him out of his memories. "Come on in."

Her face looked grim.

"Thanks for coming by, Colonel." She shifted a bunch of papers around on her desk, looked at him uncomfortably. "We need to have a little talk."

"Oh, Doc," he answered whispering conspiratorially. "I've already had that little 'the birds and the bees talk.' I *know* about the facts of life."

She laughed. Thank God, he thought.

"I wish it was that simple, Sir."

He didn't like this, he didn't like this at all. In fact, this was downright scaring him. Serious talk from a doctor was rarely a good thing, in his experience.

"I haven't picked up a Goa'uld or anything have I, Doc? Rabies? Athlete's foot? Kennel cough?"

She grinned, and then her face turned serious. "Sir..."

"Okay, I can take the truth. So I've got a week to live...."

"Colonel," she shook her head. "It's not that bad..."

"Ah, I've got two weeks to live?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You will probably outlive us all, Colonel."

"Now that I doubt."

She smiled, tried once again to straighten the papers on her desk, looked up once more, hoping he'd stay serious long enough for her to tell him what she had to tell him. Typical O'Neill, hiding behind that mask of humor and sarcasm. Fooling no one, least of all himself.

"Colonel. Please. I just wanted you to know that I had to do the extra physical today at the request of the Pentagon."

"The Pentagon is worried I've got the heartbreak of Psoriasis?"

"No. They flagged your last physical. Because of your age."

He said nothing.

"Sir, you are 45 years old, well past the normal age for an officer to be leading an active field unit, doing the kind of strenuous missions your team does."

Very, very quietly, he asked, and she knew there was fear behind the question. "They're going to pull my ticket?"

"No, Sir," she heard him exhale in relief. "Not yet. I think they were just suspicious of your test results."

"What test results?"

"All of them. From your last physical. They are rather hard to explain, odd. Unique, even."

"Me? Odd? Unique?"

"Yes. Colonel, you are in better physical condition than just about anyone on this base. Men half your age would kill to have your physical fitness rating. It would be a credit to a man ten years younger, even 15. I know you workout here, and while off planet your team walks a lot of miles. And I also know that, common belief to the contrary, you don't live on pizza and beer. But quite frankly, it's hard to explain. I do think it may have had something to do with what happened that first year of the Stargate program..."

"The sarcophagus? After Hathor..." involuntarily his hand rubbed across his stomach as he swallowed, remembering how close he'd come to ending up as a Jaffa. Long long life, but at a price he would never willingly pay. O'Neill shivered.

"Colonel, all I'm saying is that your physical report got flagged by the brass, by some paperpusher in Washington. There's no problem right now, because this second round of tests confirmed the first, as I knew it would. But, Colonel," and she raised her eyes to meet his gaze, "you have to know, there will come a time, not so far in the future, when it won't matter. Age will become the sole determining factor. They'll..."

"Take this away from me." His eyes met hers. "I know."

"I just wanted you to be aware of the situation."

"I am."

"Sir, I know how much this place means to you, your work, these people."

"I don't think you do," he answered her, honestly, his voice suddenly thick with emotion as he looked away.

"Colonel, what I'm trying to say here is be sure you've thought about this, about what you'll do next, what options you have. Age catches up with us all. No matter how fast or how far we run."His eyes were dark pools. "I know."

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

Jack spent the rest of the day not thinking about it. He was a master at that. He'd spent a lot of time in his life not thinking about the unpleasant things. That's how he survived them. He didn't think about Iraq, or that parachute accident, or what happened that day with Charlie, or coming home from Abydos and finding Sara gone. Never dwell on the failures, the losses,

the unpleasantness. He couldn't do that and go on, so he avoided the ugly stuff like it was the Goa'uld.

Avoidance.

Ah, see, there was at least *one* thing he'd learned with age.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

With a sigh of relief, General Hammond finished up the last of the paperwork in his 'must be done today' stack and pushed his chair away from his desk. If he hurried, he could still make the party at O'Malley's Pub, he thought, at least put in the obligatory appearance for his second's birthday. He couldn't stay too long of course, having the base CO hang around too long put too much of a damper on the festivities, he thought with a chuckle, but he could at

least get supper and a beer.

George grabbed his coat from the hook on the back of his door, closing it behind him, and started across the briefing room. He paused as he always did to take a moment to look down into the gateroom at the huge artifact that ruled his life and the life of his teams and the staff who supported them.

Hmm. Was that someone down there? He took a step closer to the large glass wall, and noted the guest of honor for tonight's party was sitting alone on one of the MALPs parked to the side of the gate. Well, at least I won't be late for the party, Hammond thought as he made his way down to the gateroom.

O'Neill didn't look up when he walked in. "Jack?"

"Sir?" the brown eyes raised to meet his, then looked away.

"All alone down here, are you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Contemplating a trip somewhere, Son?"

O'Neill grinned softly. "Ah, no Sir. Just," he waved a hand at the gate.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

"Things."

Ah, O'Neill as always reluctant to give up his secrets.

"Things like...."

"Like all the times I've walked through that thing," the Colonel pointed at the gate. "All the people who've gone and not come back. All the places I've gone. All the places I'll never go."

Hammond sat down beside O'Neill. "So Dr. Fraiser told you?"

O'Neill nodded.

"You're safe for a few more months at least, Colonel. But you know the Air Force, there's never any certainty...."

"Right, Sir. Nothing's certain but death and taxes."

"And growing older."

"Yes." O'Neill sounded weary. "I know, Sir."

"It happens to the best of us, Son."

"Uh huh."

"But..." Hammond prompted.

"But I don't feel old, or older," and then he added in a smaller voice "most of the time. I mean I know there's things I can't do now that I could do ten years ago, maybe five. But not much. And I can still outrun and outfight most of the guys half my age around here, Sir."

"I know that Jack." Hammond paused. "I wouldn't let you go out there otherwise."

O'Neill nodded, was silent for a moment, and then asked. "What was it like, when you had to give it up, go behind a desk?"

"I won't kid you, Jack. It wasn't easy. It never is, for those of us who've been out there."

O'Neill was studying the shine on his boots. "Was it the end of the world?" he asked softly.

"It seemed like it for a while. But I discovered there were other things I was good at, maybe not quite as much fun, didn't have the adrenaline rush of flying, but there were still things that needed to be done."

Jack looked up for a moment. "I don't think I can do that, Sir. I don't think I could stand here and watch others go and know I'll never go out there again. I'm not any damn good at the paperwork, or waiting, or sending someone else out to do things for me...."

"Someone has to do that stuff, too, Jack."

"Not me."

"If not you, then who, Colonel? I won't be here forever either, Jack. I was going to retire years ago, you might remember...."

"You can't, Sir. You love this too much."

"So do you."

There was a pained look on the handsome face. "No, the difference is they won't let me keep doing what I love."

"Yes, they will. In a different way, not as the leader going through the gate, but as the leader back here."

Jack lifted his gaze to meet Hammond's. "But how do you do it, Sir? Watch all of us go through, not knowing."

"Someone has to be here, watching your backs, standing up for you and what you do, bucking the brass and the paperpushers...."

"Ah, diplomacy. One of my finest traits," O'Neill said sarcastically. "Just the perfect future career for me."

"You learn to do what you have to do, Jack. You could do it if you tried. If you wanted to." Hammond peered into the face of his second, his friend. "Someday it *will* be you, Son. There will come a time when this place and these people will need you, not to be the leader out there but to be their leader back here. It's not easy, no, I won't try to tell you that it is. I'd rather face the enemy myself than to send someone else out to do it, to spend my days and nights waiting and worrying. But they will need someone here, someone who cares, someone they can trust and respect. Someone who understands them and will go to bat for them. Someone like you, Colonel."

O'Neill shook his head. "I don't think I can be that someone, Sir."

Hammond smiled. "Colonel, in your career you have done some remarkable things, once you've set your mind to them. Don't tell me you can't do the same." The General got to his feet. "Now, come on Jack. There's a birthday party waiting for you."

"Really, Sir, I'm not much in the mood for partying...."

"So? What does that have to do with anything? There are a couple of dozen people waiting for us at O'Malleys, looking forward to an evening out. They need a little fun, Colonel, they work long and hard all week and they share in the danger but get damn little of the glory. So it's not an option for you or me to let them down. We're going to go have some pizza, some beer and some cake. And you, Son, are going to have a happy birthday, whether you want to

or not."

Jack looked up at his CO. "Is that an order Sir?"

"Damn right, Colonel. Now resign yourself to the inevitable birthday foolishness."

O'Neill got up from his seat on the MALP, and let a grin cross his face. "If you insist, sir. Birthday party it is. But I'm not blowing out any candles. Or wearing one of those silly hats. Or karaoke...."

FINIS