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O'Neill leaned back against the chill, concrete wall of the base cafeteria, sipping at a cooling mug of government coffee as he watched the flurry of activity around him. People prepared for the upcoming meal: cooks, bakers and prep crew all dancing a lopsided waltz. Armed with sharp knives, heavy pots and roasting pans the crew took raw ingredients from one side of the kitchen and sent finished food stuffs out of the other. The piles of vegetables, heaps of cans and stacks of meats were now finished dishes all laid out on countertops in sharp rank and file as if awaiting a dress inspection. Judging by the expression in the mess sergeant's eyes, that was exactly what was happening.
The colonel let a soft chuckle slip past his lips as one lone senior airman was called up short because the frosting on a dozen or so sheet cakes was -" just 'not' the way we do things here, Son "- and was sent back to the bowels of the pantry to scrape and refrost the entire batch
Holidays for those stationed at Stargate Command could be dicey at best. You never knew when some Goa'uld might forget to read his calendar and show up unannounced, uninvited and without his potluck contribution. The support staff here tried their best to help make up for the sense of separation forced on those whose duty schedule landed on holidays. The general consensus was 'it was the least they could do' for the men and women who daily put their lives on the line to protect homeland and loved ones from a threat only a handful outside of this mountain really knew about.
There was something universal that drew service members of all branches together at times like this. Most of the folks here knew what it was like to be away from family and friends during the holidays. It didn't matter if it had been a day on guard mount, an extended tour overseas or days spent living in some war's desolation; it was still a time of quiet loneliness and despair. Like the band of lost brothers and sisters they were, all pitched in to disguise the isolation under ratty, homemade decorations and the best food that could be served.
The civilians didn't slip by unaffected either. Many had no families in the immediate area and had begun to consider the SGC their 'home away from home'. Even the few who had uprooted their entire lives and relocated loved ones here still tried to swing by and spend a bit of time with their co-workers. Even if it was for only an hour or so. Though the base was 'officially' on 'half staff', the corridors still buzzed with ambulating conversations, and you could find the labs filled with activity of both a professional and personal nature.
And comradeship.
Some folks just don't know when to pack it in and give it a rest.
A small sigh puffed past Jack's lips. Holidays had never been a big deal with him growing up. Nothing in the Air Force had ever made them something special either. Only after Sara came into his life had certain days of the year come to mean more than others. That's when it became all the harder on him. Suddenly, there were reasons to take notice of the month and day: birthdays, anniversaries, family holidays.
The military never took those dates into account. He had raised his hand, had "taken the King's Schilling", had bound himself in the service of his country: body, mind, and soul. The missions had come, and he had to go no matter the date, its significance or the personal cost. Sara had tried to be a 'good' military wife. She never understood in raising his hand, in taking the oath, he had lost every ounce of control over his personal life.
Sure, he could have worked the system, could have shaken the right hands, met all the right people. Probably could have landed himself a fine '9 - 5' somewhere flyin' a desk, home every weekend, able to grab some leave pretty much whenever he wanted it. He knew folks who could have pulled strings for him - threaten to unbury the necessary skeletons; would have helped him bury a few of his own for that matter.
But that would have been the end of Jonathan Fitzpatrick O'Neill emotionally and physically. And no doubt the end of his career, as well. He knew he never could have been the professional 'Yes Man' necessary to survive in the bread and circuses world of Pentagon politics. He'd be at Ft. Leavenworth right now making little rocks out of big rocks for decking some higher-up wind-bag who had never gotten closer to the field than an inspection tour via Huey. The kind who'd fly into a secure location out in the boon-docks to 'meet the troops under his command' and press the flesh. The kind of REMF career officer who ends up setting policies for situations that got good people killed.
A grimace grabbed his already craggy features as he slugged down another sip of cooling coffee. Gah! This stuff gets worse every time I'm down here. And Daniel wants to know why I come by and raid his pot.
The rumors of the young scientist and his almost mythical devotion to his coffee maker were known far and wide on base. A flitting vision of Daniel dressed as some great high priest of yore, paying homage and offering tribute to the 'Mr. Coffee' - where it sat perched in high splendor atop the ratty old end table keeping it safe from the overflowing debris of the office - dragged a raspy chortle from somewhere deep inside O'Neill. A passing airman threw a glance toward the lounging officer. The colonel's soft sable eyes met his. Startled, the young man decided discretion was quite probably the better part of survival and beat a hasty retreat. There was just no way he could have heard flint-faced Colonel O'Neill snicker . Men who made their careers walking the 'dark side' didn't have the more base and common emotions of mere mortals. Did they?
Seeing the reaction from the young airman, Jack laughed quietly to himself.
Kid looks just like Murcheson would have. Jack thought back to the days when he was just another Officer - not the deputy commander of an entire secret project - fondly remembering how terrified 1st Lt. Robert Murcheson had been when he'd first joined then Captain 'Black Jack' O'Neill's Combat Controller Wing. Poor guy. Murcheson had finally, after four long months in the field, loosened up, learned how to look into the cracks in O'Neill's hardened demeanor to find the glimmers of humor and amusement. Thinking back, Jack remembered the holiday he'd spent when Murcheson had finally gotten over his terror of his commanding officer.
It was Christmas, '88 or '89 - couldn't be sure which, but the entire team had been in isolation lock down for over a month, and no respite was in sight. The mission was "Go", then "No Go" then "Go" so many times the entire team felt they were referee's at a Chinese table tennis match instead of a highly classified dark side operation. Murcheson had gotten a wild hair and slipped quietly but totally off the edge. Jack wasn't sure whether to kill the young combat controller or give him a medal for courage. Either way, Robert had stayed up the entire night silently building a family of snowmen in the far back corner of the secure compound.
Then, when O'Neill was away at the morning briefing, he'd very carefully disconnected the heater in O'Neill's room, opened the windows and assembled the entire snow family there in Jack's room. It wouldn't have been so bad had Mommy Snowman and Daddy Snowman not been so obviously occupying Jack's bunk for conjugal reasons.
Of course, Jack had screamed and yelled. He'd had to cover the fit of hysterical laughter threatening to spray out every time his mind recalled the image of the two snowmen humping in his bunk. Of course, Captain O'Neill had made Murcheson use a tablespoon from the dining hall to remove the project from his blankets. No way had Jack actually been angry with the young man. Truth be told, O'Neill had wished he'd been able to get pictures of that quiet family scene.
After that, Murcheson had become everything a commander could have wanted in a combat controller. He was smart, incisive, and brilliant in the field. And soon went on to earn his own command. Capt. Robert Murcheson's career ended one brief year later when he stepped on a landmine buried in some God forsaken piece of ground on Christmas eve.
The word had sifted back to the then Major O'Neill via unofficial channels: brought to him by the base chaplain who had knew them both. Jack's team was once again in isolation, prepping for a mission. Even on that grey and snowy Christmas day the chaplain stayed with him for the next few hours, saying the 'mass for the dead' in the compound's tiny chapel. And even as the 'Deo gratias 'rolled from his tongue, Jack knew a part of him had left his soul, and he was an emptier man for the loss of it.
Murcheson and the mine on Christmas. Dunleavy who'd come down with systemic sepsis in the Central American mountains. He'd raved from the fever all the way to Tegucigalpa where he'd drifted into a coma just hours before Jack's team was finally able to score a Med-evac. When Jack had last tracked down a report only a few years ago, the hospital chaplain had told him that Michael Dunleavy was still in a vegetative state at a VA hospital in West Virginia. That had been Memorial Day 1993.
Murcheson. Dunleavy. Jefferson, who'd caught the sniper round in Latvia while Charlie was having his very first birthday party back home. He'd written the letter to the man's newly wedded wife, telling her what a brave man her husband was. How his actions had saved the lives of the other men on his team. Hollow words set on simple paper; a visit to a soon-to-be grieving widow from a chaplain.
And Vasquez, who had decided to leave the service to enter the Seminar, become a military chaplain himself and minister to the souls he knew were in need. His life had been lost, not in combat , but at the hands of a drunk driver in a vehicle rollover during the Thanksgiving half-day schedule at Pope AFB.
Charlie's fifth birthday where he'd gotten the bicycle. Charlie's sixth Christmas where he'd gotten his first set of ice skates. Calling home from a place that couldn't be discussed on a mission that couldn't be talked about to wish Sara "Happy Birthday" in 1994. Getting home tired and sore after a 48 hour shift as squadron duty officer. Being so drained and in such a hurry to unwind and spend what little time he might have with his wife and son, he'd forgotten to lock his sidearm in the gun safe. After that, Jack didn't ever have to worry about missing another holiday with Charlie.
Or with Sara.
But, as had become a constant in his cruel life, there was the chaplain.
For a brief second, O'Neill was overwhelmed in crushing pain where the memories had fisted him in the gut. It's not Fair! Damn it, I've done my share! I've spent most of my life away from home. I wasn't there for Christmases or Thanksgivings. I wasn't there for half of my kid's birthdays. Hell ... I almost didn't make it to my own son's birth, for Christ's Sake. Why the hell does this have to keep happening? Come on, God. Why?
He brought the mug higher and rested his forehead against its now cold rim. The faint line between his full brows deepened as he squeezed his eyelids together, trying to shut out the world around him.
Whoa! Hold up there, Johnny Boy. Having a pity-party for one, are we?
He stopped and looked out over the faces beginning to wander into the mess hall, attracted by the smells of good food and sounds of companionship. One day, one year . Hell, one lifetime. It's still all the same. It's the loneliness that does it, not the how or why.
His anger turned farther afield. It's the bastards out there who force this on us. On all of us. Not just the Goa'uld, all of them. Everywhere.
The one's who want to take away a man's right to safety in his own home: safety for his family and others. They're the reason we're stuck here today. And Damned if I'm gonna let them win by draggin' me down and my people with me!
Someone had set up a CD player off to one side of the door, and the crisp sound of music acted as a lure, drawing people from the bustle of the corridors into the relative calm pool of the dining hall.
These kids need you right now, O'Neill. Need to see you joining in. Need to see you know how they feel and you're right here to share it with them. They need to know they can get through the emptiness. That somebody 'does' care they're here. Military or civilian … they all raised their hands. Agreed to put 'their lives, their honor and their sacred trust' in the hands of their government for it's protection and defense. What the hell more can you ask of someone?
He pushed himself away from the wall, beginning to work his way through the growing crowd towards to the coffee pots for a warm-up. A nod to one of the supply sergeants, a vaguely ironic smile to the folks from the infirmary. Bet they're glad you're not in there right now. Handshakes around for the folks from admin. Never hurts to keep the guys who manage your records happy. A quiet 'How's the new baby?' here, a slap on the back in congratulations for the promotion there… Jack found himself slowly working his way around the room, making sure he'd seen or spoken to everyone.
As people started to claim seats and move up to the serving line, he saw the rest of his team come through the door. Waving his hand as a signal, he managed to catch Teal'c's attention across the rapidly filling space. The Jaffa, in turn, began to head the others toward him, embarking on a long, drawn-out process. It seemed just about everyone in the room wanted to have a moment with the folks on SG-1.
Sorry, Teal'c Just like tryin' to herd cats. He chuckled to himself. Or whatever it is you herd on Chulak.
His face split into a contented smile as he watched the three make their way across the crowd. He may have spent far too many years away from home and loved ones, but now, this year, it was gonna be different. It was different. He was home. And he was surrounded by his family and friends. The family he never really knew he needed … or wanted … until everyone and everything else of any importance had been lost in his life.
Colonel Jack O'Neill was finally home for the holidays.
{the end}
DECLASSIFIED MISSION BRIEFING
RETURN TO SGC
OFF BASE
