Author: crash

Email: the.yllek@gmail.com

Status: Complete 1-15-06

Category: Angst, Vignette.

Pairings: none.

Spoilers: Anything up until Threads in season 8

Season: 8

Sequel/Series Info: none

Rating: Mature

Content Warnings: Language!

Archive: Incoming Wormhole

Summary: Jack's had a rough year or so. Tag to Threads.

Disclaimer: Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

Author's Note: Music is such a big part of my life that it does influence most of my writing. Once again it was a song that inspired this one. Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah as performed by Jeff Buckley. Jeff Buckley has such a beautiful voice it's a shame he died so young. Thanks to Aniko who got me started, Hoo who kept me going and Steph for always willing to give Chris coffee. Dee cheered and beta'd and any other mistakes in the fic are my fault!

The original character of Chris, was first introduced in Whisper on a Scream. He can also be found in the Caesura series. None of which need to be read before this one. Chris is just a good friend of Jack's and has been for a long while.

Broken Hallelujah
by crash

It was perfect-the weather that is. For a moment at least, until some deranged multicolored line moved across the weathermen's map and fucked everything up. The sky was mostly clear. Thin wisps of clouds lagged behind the storm from earlier in the afternoon. The raucous storm startling him out of sleep. Sleep that was sorely needed, but not coming.

Who needed sleep anyway? There was a song about that somewhere. Some weird Canadian band that Cassie had fallen in love with, and therefore subjected him to. They weren't that bad to be honest, a huge improvement over the crappy boy band hype she went through.

He held his hand up, raising it so that it rested just below the almost full moon. Spreading his fingers apart he matched tips up with the cloud streaks, drawing an ark across the sky above him. It was like carpet, changing shades depending on which way the carpet fibers were laying. It was beautiful though, and peaceful. Streaks of navy and deep violet on an even darker blue base.

The stars were bright as well, his eyes easily picking out several star patterns. They had always brought comfort before. A universal constant, in a way. They were changing. Some coming close to being burned out stars. But from earth, they were always there. Unchanged in an otherwise extremely unstable chaotic life.

He should add some padding to these last few boards against the house. He was getting too old, and his ass too boney to be sitting on the hard composite decking. He was too old to be sitting on the decking anyway. There was a chair up here, wet from the rain and covered in leaves as he'd forgot to pull tarp it the last time he was up here. Maybe he'd put a bench up here, padded seat and all.

He was too old for a lot of things. Bad days, days when he didn't think he'd get out of bed, out numbered the good days. But he kept going, following the wheel ruts, as if nothing was wrong. He laughed, letting his head thump backward. The professor he had for American Literature had used that analogy often. Telling him and his classmates that their minds were full of wheel ruts and that every so often, the cart slipped up and got off track. It was no big deal, just put the cart back on track. Professor Adi Brown. That was his name. He was a good man, never letting him any slack and always willing to give him a kick in the posterior when needed.

His carts had fallen off their tracks. Not just one, but many. Toppling sideways, spilling their contents over the carefully partitioned areas of his mind. Busting through walls that had been put up on purpose. They were getting back on track now. Carts righted. Contents haphazardly tossed back inside. Some were easier then others. It was the others that were the problem. Memories running rampant. Excited by the souvenirs that littered his home. He tried to keep it to himself, act as if nothing was wrong. But he was failing. And people were noticing his barely perfunctory efforts.

It was nice here. Peaceful. Quiet. No pictures, no nicknacks, no stereo to cue on. Nothing to send the worst of his liberated memories into a tail spin of technicolor replays. Replays were for extending the time it took to play professional sports, not for reminding you of your failures. In the meantime, aversion therapy was in play.

And that's what this was. Therapy. Without the pesky headshrinkers thinking it was their God-given right to know what was going on in his head. It was his head, possession being what it was and all. He sighed. It was going to be a long night. Sleep wasn't valued very much in aversion therapy.

His laptop was still in its protective sleeve sitting atop the small wooden table next to his telescope. He'd abandoned it earlier when he saw the state of the chair, choosing instead to hunker down in the corner, on the floor against the house. Hiding.

From himself.

The hard thing about hiding from yourself is that you comes with youself. Permanently affixed. The only way to truly hide, was to take a vacation. A mental vacation. And they weren't good to take. People tended to worry then, and then you got visit with aforementioned headshrinkers. A definite no win.

He looked at the laptop again, debating whether or not to get up and uncover the well protected telescope. He could easily throw the tarp over the chair and sit on it. Not that it mattered. The seat of his pants were already wet from sitting on the deck.

He'd do it in a minute. Get up, boot up the laptop and see what NASA was up to. He brought one knee up, wrapping his arms around it, pulling it close. He leaned forward and rested his chin on top of his bent knee, savoring the busy quiet of his surroundings before interrupting them with the foreign sounds of of an exhaust fan and harddrive.

Releasing his knee, he let his leg fall flat and head thump against the side of the house again. Life sucked. And kicked. As soon as you got your feet under you and things were going good, you got a boot in the stomach. And after that, a kick in the nuts for good measure.

Every single fucking time he had something good going for him, it was ripped away. He was tired. Of it all. Of people dying, leaving him, and hitting below the belt. He didn't want to be "The Man" any more.

People died. It came with the job. Always had. He had accepted that fact a long time ago. But he didn't like it. As callous as it sounded, it was better when someone else was in charge. He was no longer responsible for his team, but for all the teams, and all the personnel on the base. Hammond had told him that no matter how hard he tried, there would always be people who meant more to him than others. Very few truer words were ever spoken.

It had been a shit eighteen months or so. First, right after he'd begun to move on from Daniel's 'death' and start to accept Jonas, Daniel descended. The whole Loki - Mini Me fiasco followed shortly after. Daniel got kidnapped in Central America, the Osiris debacle, Anubis destroying the alpha site. Losing Doc, and almost dying with her. That hit hard, the entire base sucker punched by Janet's death. Then the whole mind rewriting save the world get frozen, defrost, save the Asgard and get promoted.

Things had happened so fast, one moment Jack was giving his Simpsons collection to Siler and the next? He was in charge of the most secret military base there was. In his short tenure, they'd lost many good people, all of SG10 to a cave in, and in just the last month, Jacob Carter passed, and Daniel went missing, died, ascended, descended, whatever. He was back now.

And then there was Kerri. They'd been seeing each other for a while. He really liked her. They were good together. It was over now though. She'd ended it. Getting out before she could get hurt by him.

He wasn't one for giving up, but he also knew to quit when you were ahead. He already had someone in mind to take his place at the SGC. Just shuck it all. A quiet little escape off to a musty old cabin in Minnesota.

"You won't do it. You can't stand the solitude." A distinctive male voice carried up from the bottom of the ladder. "Oh sure you enjoy being on your own. You're very big on independence. But as much as you want to be a hermit and hole up in your cabin, you can't do it. You like people. Even if you won't say so."

Chris. Damn. Damn. Double Damn. The only other person he knew that was more stubborn then Daniel.

"Fuck off." He called over the railing, knowing that it wouldn't make much of a difference. As he expected, he was ignored.

"Now that's not a nice way to greet a friend. Where are your manners?" Shrieking and groaning wood signaled that Chris had begun his ascent up the ladder. "Never mind. I forgot you have none. And don't worry. You weren't thinking aloud." The lithe figure made quick work of last few rungs, hoisting himself up, easily swinging his legs on to the deck.

"So what you can read minds now Counselor Troi?"

"I wish. Could you imagine how easy my job would be? Could help twice as many people and fit in a round of golf before lunch." Chris paused, and Jack pictured him rolling his eyes. "No, its even simpler. I know you. I saw the look on your face at the wake earlier. You're trying to convince yourself to give up. "

"Pull up a wet spot." Jack huffed in defeat. Chris was right. The bastard always seemed to be right.

Chris' crepe soled shoes were mere whispers as he moved about, shoving the chair off to the side and sliding down to sit at Jack's right hand side.

"Cozy isn't it?" A grin was coming through his joyful voice. "I know you're from Minnesota and all, but when you're sick because you spent all night out here in only a pair of jeans don't come whining to me."

Jack let his head loll to the right, and shot a dirty look at Chris. One that was indistinguishable in the low light. "So you came here to criticize my clothing choice?"

"Nope! I came here with the oldest cure all remedy there is."

Jack could hear clothing moving, and muted thunks of something as Chris twitched and fidgeted. A moment later a small cup was pressed into his hand, and then guided up to his mouth with the order to "Drink!"

Jack tossed back the drink, wincing as it burned it's way down.

"Bourbon is great cure-all?" There was rasp to his voice as he tried to talk over the burning sensation.

"Yes. Before there was Freud and his cronies, there was the bar." More bourbon was poured and he was ordered to drink again. "And the bartender would get you all liquored up and you would spill all your worries to him."

"You're not my bartender."

"No, I'd make a crappy one."

"Yes you would. So why are you trying to get me liquored up?"

"Because sometimes, all you need is a good drink."

A touch of skepticism seeped into his voice."Is that your medical opinion."

"Yes. I can get you a second opinion if you'd like."

"No, that's okay."

They sat, not talking, waiting for something. Jack wasn't sure what. He wasn't paying all that much attention. Most of his attention diverted to picking up the shrinking mess of upturned carts and lassoing the memories running free range.

"You're never going to find the chord that David played."

"Huh?"

"The chord that David played to please the Lord. You're not going to find it. It's not for you to find."

"Look, I don't need you to talk to me about faith in God and the journey I'm supposed to be on."

"Oh please." Chris slapped a hand against the wall of the house behind him. "Give me some credit. I'm the last person that would be talking to you about God."

"Then what the hell are you trying to say."

"I"m saying that there's not an answer to everything. You just have to go with it." Chris shifted around, his lanky limbs clunking into the siding.

Jack waited, toying with the cup in his hand. His fingers deftly tracing over the textured walls of the object, around the smooth edge, and then back down to the raised surface. He repeated the same pattern again. Over and over until he fumbled. The plastic slipping out of his sweat coated grip.

"I don't think I can be 'The Man.'" Jack's mouth and vocal chords worked on their own accord, releasing words against his will. "I'm tried. I'm tried of getting the crap beat out of me, only to get a kick in the balls while I'm down. I'm tired of never knowing status of Daniel. Is he dead? Alive? Ascended? In purgatory? I'm tired of watching good men and women die for a war that seems to never end."

He paused, taking in a deep shuddering breath.

"I'm tired of writing letters of condolences where I can't even tell family members the truth. That their loved one died doing something important, not a casualty of some fucked up training exercise. I'm just tired of hurting. Of waking up sweat soaked and fighting, and having to lie to the woman next to me, and warning her not to come near me if I don't wake up. I'm just tired." Jack finished in a whisper, stunned that so much had come out. He scrubbed his hands over his face, across his gritty eyes and cold nose, letting them drop uselessly to his side.

"Do not go gentle into that good night." Jack turned to his friend at the croaky whisper. Chris cleared his throat he spoke agian again. "Do not go gentle into that good night. / Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Chris got up, pacing back and forth on the small deck. "It's the last lines to a poem Dylan Thomas wrote about his father dying from cancer."

"I *know* that," he snarked.

"Then you should know what it's about." Chris paused long enough to glare down at Jack, still seated on the floor, before resuming . "Just because the light's getting dimmer or closer or whatever, it doesn't mean you just roll over and give up. You've never given up before, Jack. Don't start now." Chris stopped moving and leaned against the railing next to his friend.

Chris waited for a response. "In other words. Get your head out of your ass. Janet would be one of the first people to tell you that. You lost people. Learn from it, turn around and tell the new recruits what you've learned. Two birds with one stone. You honor their memory and pass on knowledge" Chris lightly kicked Jack in the leg. "I know you know this. You're not dumb"

"And?" Jack looked up, motioning for him to continue.

"And what?"

"And what else are you going to say."

"Nothing."

"Shrinks always have something to say."

"I'm not here as a shrink." Chris sat back down on the still damp deck, pouring each of them another shot." I'm here as a friend. Doing what any good friend would do. Kicking your sorry ass when needed. Now drink up. It's good bourbon"

"Very good bourbon." Jack commented as he tossed his back.

"Alright, last shot." Chris poured the last of the bourbon into the two cups, screwing the lid back on the bottle.

They lapsed into silence one again, broken only be the occasional grunts as one of them shifted positions. It didn't take long before Chris gave in. Levering himself up he tucked the bottle and cups into a jacket pocket and offered a hand up to his younger friend. "What do you say we get down from here?"

Jack looked up at Chris shaking his head. "Nahhh, I think I'll just stay here for a while."

"In just a pair of jeans? Fine be my guest. Die of exposure." Chris was already at the ladder, preparing step down on to the rungs.

"This is my house you're the guest."Jack leaned forward enough to peer over the edge. "If you fall I'm leaving you there as a lawn ornament."

"I won't fall."

"I've heard that before."

"Shut up you jackass." Chris grinned before finally started to work his way down the ladder. He paused halfway down, and went back up, only high enough so that his chin was level with the deck. "Just remember Jack, you won't find the chord. Some things aren't meant to be found."

Jack sat there, calmer then he had been earlier, drunker then he had been as well. He listened carefully to Chris' progress down the ladder. Maybe the man was right. Some things didn't have answers. Shutting his eyes, he dropped his head backwards, only to snap forward when a strangled curse floated up.

"SHIT."

Jack grinned and poked his head over the deck, "I told you, I'm leaving you there as a lawn ornament."

/fic

End notes:

Song Title: Hallelujah

Written by: Leonard Cohen

Performed by: Jeff Buckley

Album Found on: Grace

Lyrics: http://www.alwaysontherun.net/buckley.htm#f

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas, 1952.

http://www.eecg.toronto.edu/~flouris/docs/dylan_tomas1.html