Author – Soles
E-mail – soles@gamewood.net
Category – Thoughts, POV
Warning – none
Pairing – Jack and Harry
Season – 6th
Spoiler –
CONTENT
LEVEL:
Summary – Even while on that moon with a paranoid lunatic, O’Neill has time to reminisce.
Author’s note – My readers may think – and rightly so – that I do a lot of Jack-POV – which I do – but there is SO much more to Jack than meets the eye. The addage that “you can’t read a book by its cover” fits our colonel right down to the ground.
Feedback, please – I’m not getting my feedback! Thanks, Soles
Disclaimer – Everyone knows to whom Stargate SG1 belongs, and it ain’t me! This is a work of fiction for entertainment only – no monies changed hands, and you can blame Harry for any small animals, or fish, injured in this story.
“ Well, that’s just wrong…on SO many levels.”
Jack O’Neill, aghast at the audacity, watched his planet-mate scramble into the river to grab his ill-gotten gains, then throwing them ashore. And while being flung with vigor, one flying fish just missed hitting O’Neill’s head.
Maybourne’s idea of fishing was so diametrically opposed to those of any real, or reel, sportsman, that it was ludicrous…and WRONG.
But, his own time-honored method hadn’t shown any tangible results, yet, and the protein would be a welcome addition to their diet of green, leafy vegetables. With a little seasoning…only thing was, they didn’t have any seasoning – not even salt.
Oh, well….
Maybourne continued to gather his catch and fling it ashore.
O’Neill harvested the bounty, all the while his stomach rumbled expectantly for a warm meal. Thought’s skittered through his brain of food preparation and preservation – information he hadn’t accessed in a long, LONG time. Not since that last fishing trip with Char….
“Jaacckk, get your butt moving. We’ve got enough here to last a whole week – we’ll be sick of the stuff…”
“Yeah, I know…” he shouted, and then muttered to himself, “Just like I’m sick of you, Harry.”
Maybourne splashed ashore just as O’Neill finished gathering the catch and transporting it – using his shirt as a carry-all, to the fire he’d built up. Harry fairly glowed with pride as he surveyed the mound.
“Bet you couldn’t get all of those, doing it your way…”
“No, Harry, you’re probably right…since I don’t carry C-4 in my tackle box.”
“Jaacckk, don’t be bitter…just cause I’m a better fisherman…”
“Better fisherman my ass, Harry. You wouldn’t know one end of a fishing rod from the other.”
“Some of us don’t need a flimsy pole, Jack. Especially when we have a quicker, more explosive method.”
Maybourne laughed at his little joke.
“Yeah well, get that smirk off your face and save the grenades. Pace yourself, Harry, we may be here for a while.”
Both men fell to the task of gutting and decapitating the catch. Some of it would be baked for an immediate meal, some dried over a slow fire for use later in the week.
Oh, joy! Look what goodies they had to look forward to –
Baked fish, Seared fish, Boiled fish, Grilled fish, Fish stew, Fish fingers, Fish on a stick, Fish kabob’s, Fish jerky…and little green leafy things.
Oiy.
O’Neill lay on his cot, cool now from an early evening swim/bath/laundry excursion.
He’d forgotten just how awful, dried fish-guts stunk. It had been a while since he’d experienced fishing like he had today. In fact, actually he’d never had an experience like he’d had today.
He idly plucked his cold, damp clothing away from his rapidly chilling body, giving himself time to watch a very colorful sunset, and reminisce.
He could remember camping with Sara and Charlie, and setting his line in the water. Charlie didn’t like the night crawlers he sometimes used – “they wiggled too much,” or
“They don’t have a face, Dad.”
But after he, or Sara, baited the hook, Charlie sat for hours waiting for a fish to come and take his bait.
He and Charlie spent those hours quietly sitting, and talking – or not, or enjoying just being together – a son and his Dad. Once in a while Sara would join in, but most times she let the men do the fishing, while she graciously offered to clean and cook the spoils of their labor.
Smart woman! She must have known they’d never catch anything, or if they did it was always thrown back.
She liked to tease him that as a soldier, he knew 1,001 ways to kill, but couldn’t do a thing when it came to killing a simple little fish.
Sometimes they wouldn’t fish, but would just pick through his fly collection, play with the handmade crawlers, and examine, piece by piece, the other miscellaneous fishing paraphernalia – very similar to little girls playing with their mother’s jewelry box.
Of course, Charlie – even that young, would’ve been pissed if the comparison had ever been suggested.
Those were good times - quiet and restful times - little oases in an otherwise dirty and misunderstood life of Special Ops, and Covert warfare. They were also too, too few.
O’Neill looked around his homely abode, watching the shadows lengthen and consolidate. Then looking up, the first pinpoints of light dotted the darkening sky, as the last glorious ray of sunlight sank from sight.
This place bore a striking resemblance to places, both in
He smiled to himself in the dark. This place really reminded him of home, and normally wouldn’t be a bad place to visit….
O’Neill’s clothing finally dried, and as the sky darkened to midnight blue he turned over in his cot to welcome a good night’s rest. Pulling his jacket – which doubled as a blanket, up around his chin, O’Neill relaxed into the meager comfort of his bed, willing his body inactive.
After a long several minutes, he realized that sleep wouldn’t be coming merely because he was tired. Apparently, tonight was for replaying, remembering, and retrospection.
In his mind’s eye, he could still see Carter collapse to the ground from Harry’s Zat fire – damn Harry Mayborne!
He hoped Carter was okay –he should’ve belted Maybourne a good one as soon as he stood up, JUST for his attack on Carter. He certainly hoped she was all right…but he knew his 2IC, and her propensity for blaming herself for everything – everything in or out of her control. It was almost as bad as his own habit of self-flagellation – it was also a trait that came with responsibility and ownership.
He couldn’t do anything for her right now, except worry. Still, Carter had a level head on those fine shoulders, and she also had Teal’c and Jonas.
Teal’c especially would be watching out for her – he had that second sense, plus he knew O’Neill would expect it of him. Teal’c might not be the most verbose person in the universe, but he had a knack for cutting through the garbage and clutter, and getting straight to the heart of a problem. O’Neill had always appreciated that about his alien friend.
He also hoped they weren’t worrying about him too much, or aggravating General Hammond about finding him. He knew the general was worried; he also had faith they would find him. Carter would make sure of it, while he wouldn’t make the same mistake he’d made several years ago on Edora. That little bump, on the O’Neill road of life, had caused a lot of problems, for everyone involved.
He might as well sit back and enjoy a little well-earned down time.
Of which, he’d just have to remind himself.
O’Neill heard footsteps outside his area.
He raised up on one elbow listening to the sounds. Footsteps, interrupted with stops and starts of hurried movement broke the death-like silence of the night.
What the heck?
What was Harry up to?
Why was he playing hide and seek at this time of night? By himself?
Jack slowly rolled out of his bed, quietly listening to the night sounds - still interspersed with footsteps.
“Harry, what’s up? You okay, Harry?” He called out.
There was no response from the other man, only a slight wind rustling through the dried detritus.
“Stop playing games, Harry. Go to sleep!”
The one thing he didn’t need right now, was a mental case, jailbait, ‘rat bastard’ flying around in the middle of the night, acting weird.
Acting even more weird than was normal for Harry Maybourne.
The sound died away…maybe he’d just caught Harry on a latrine run – even that little weasel had needs.
After several minutes O’Neill returned to his bed…he was too tired to play Harry’s games…and tomorrow morning he’d let him know – in no uncertain terms.
Right now, he had a few winks to catch, some dreams to un-pause and re-wind, and some flights of fancy to pursue – all in quest of a good night’s sleep.
Minutes passed, O’Neill’s eyelids finally yielded to the inevitable, closing slowing over tired, strained-from-searching-the-night eyes.
Just as sleep claimed his last conscious reflection, he thought he heard voices….