Requiem by Dinkydow

Chapter Two

General Jack O'Neill re-read the latest message from the Odyssey, currently somewhere in deep space. Where, they were exactly... well, there was root of his problem. He was clueless as to that, and so was everyone else at Stargate Command. And he had asked - though some would probably describe it as demand - repeatedly. No one knew here they were exactly. . . The last time he'd called, Walter had even sounded... apologetic. In short, he'd run into a dead-end in that department. And he hated those things.

'Bad choice of words,' he reminded himself nervously, 'very, very bad choice. Keep positive thoughts, Jack. Don't go there - not now, not ever.'

With what seemed like a gigantic effort of will, he returned to the problem at hand. Where the heck were they? He mentally reviewed what he did know, which was... squat, zip, nada, a big fat zero.

What he did know was that the one person who could pull a rabbit out of her... whatever... and tell him right down to the square millimeter was... out there... on that danged ship... in space... somewhere. Which brought him back to where he'd started, imagining all the bad things that could happen, and he could imagine a whole honkin' lot of 'em

So he switched gears and tried to picture himself there... with Sam... in space... somewhere... instead of flying a desk deep in the bowels of the Pentagon. That exercise in positive thinking lasted for - he glanced at his watch, and tapped its face, 'Yep, the danged things was still ticking away,' - all of about fifteen seconds.

'Crap, this is so not working.'

He stared off into space and muttered, "I don't know how you did it all those years, George. Sending us out - there," his hand waved vague circles in the air, "and waited for us to come back home, hopefully in working order." That train of thought had direct connections to places he'd sworn he wouldn't go, and he bit his lip, determined to think about something else - something positive.

Jack read the brief communique again, hoping to catch some hidden nuance in the terse message.

"To Stargate Command: Met Supreme Commander Thor in orbit around Orilla and Lieutenant Colonel Carter installed their technology into our ship's computer. Odyssey is making the jump into hyperspace with the Ori in pursuit. Major General Hank Landry, USAF"

His hand snaked around to rub the back of his neck to loosen the corded muscles there. Massaging them seemed to make no impact at all on the cables that had taken up residence there He tipped his head back and let his BDU shirt collar chafe against his skin. Apparently, the laundry had put enough starch in the danged thing to enable it to stand up on its own and salute the stars that signified his rank. Not to mention what the starched trousers were doing to his ass.

Like lemmings bent on hurling themselves over a cliff, his eyes zeroed in on the one thing that was bent on driving him around the bend - the message that still lay in the middle of his desk. It was like having his own personal black hole; it was the center of his universe and everything gravitated toward it until it was inexorably sucked in.

"Oh, for crying out loud," he flicked his fingers against the paper and it crackled back at him causing him to scowl. Despite his best efforts, he hadn't been able to get anything more out of it than the first ten times he'd read it. "What the heck does this mean, anyway?"

He scrubbed his face with both hands with the vague hope that while he wasn't looking, the paper would either, A - disappear... or B, - morph into something he could better understand. Peeking from behind splayed fingers, he spied the offending message. It hadn't changed one bit.

'What makes this whole danged thing worse, is that I can't even call Landry on the phone and chew him a new one for losing my team; mainly because Hank is there - on the Odyssey with the rest of SG-1 - where I should be instead of here.'

His eyes appeared to grow dark with worry as he stared off into space and took a trip down memory lane. 'Maybe I should have turned down the President when he offered me these stars. God knows I've hated being 'the man'. Jack mentally hooked quotes around the hated phrase as his hands flipped and flopped over his internal discussion of the pros and cons of his past decision. 'And I don't care what the Brass say. I'm not that good at it, not nearly as good as George was.'

He pursed his lips and crossed his arms in front of his chest, as he mentally took a stand. 'What it all boils down to is that I'm here and Landry is there... with my team - no, what used to be my team - and I'm stuck with waiting for them to come back home - or...'

"Crap," he grumbled under his breath, "You don't listen so well, do you? Don't go there, Jack." He sighed and knuckled his eyes. "Don't even think of going there."

Desperate for a distraction, he leaned back in his chair and winced when it squealed in protest. "Well, ain't this just peachy?" he muttered with disgust, careful to keep his voice pitched low so that his secretary, who had the ears of a bat, wouldn't hear him. The last thing he wanted or needed right now was a lecture from her.

"Jeez, Hank," he muttered as he folded the message and then tapped his desk blotter with a corner of it. "What aren't you telling me?" He unfolded it again, but then put it down and palms flat on the grained wood of his desktop, pushed himself away.

"Time for a change of scenery; maybe that will help," he sniffed, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and looked around his cramped office, "Getting stuffy in here anyway."

Out of habit, one hand slicked down the tufted hair on the crown of his head that resisted all efforts to lie down. Then he attempted to loosen his collar and, careful of his chaffed skin - never mind where it was - he stood.

Donning his dignity like a P-90, and ready to face the world, and his secretary/pit bull minder, Jack circled his desk, and mindful of his chaffed cheeks, walked gingerly through his half-open office door, accompanied with the swish, swish of his starched pants. "Ida?"

"You bellowed, sir?" His secretary looked up at her boss with a partially lifted eyebrow, an expression that would have done Teal'c proud.

"No," he gulped and tried for his pant pockets, but missed, his palms skidded on the impermeable fabric. Funny how a retired Army Drill Sergeant could make him feel guilty over nothing. "Not really."

Based on the frown on her face, she didn't believe him. "Not much," he temporized as he rocked back and forth on his heels, hands furiously scrabbling with finding his pocket opening. That in itself was difficult to achieve, "Danged starch," he muttered. Jack was grateful that this irritant now gave him a reason to blow off steam; he glommed onto it like a spare ammo clip in a firefight.

"Didn't I tell you to tell the cleaners to leave the starch out of my uniform?" Chin held high in indignation, his hands rubbed the stiff fabric.

"Yes, Sir. I did." She eyed him over her glasses. "Don't tell me..."

Jack grimaced and nodded.

"The pants too?"

"Ya think?" he squirmed and tried to ignore the effects it had on his anatomy. Instead he tried to look the part of a much put-upon victim. She didn't look like she bought it though.

"Yes, they are a bit stiff, aren't they?" Ida tipped her head back and rubbed her chin, as if deep in thought. "Uncomfortable too, I'll bet."

"Oh, they're just right if I was built like an ironing board, but this..."

"No, Sir you most definitely do not look like an ironing board," Ida smirked, "so I can see how that would be a problem."

"You did talk to them, didn't you?" He looked injured - and was.

"Of course I did, Sir," she replied stiffly. "But the guy went on and on about how all the generals want extra starch - seems it makes them look more dignified."

"Well, tell him again... and impress on the starch-happy shrub that this general hates the stuff." He stabbed his chest with one finger, but the effect was spoiled when it met with the starched cloth and skidded into a pocket flap. "I can hardly move and everyone can hear me coming for miles around," his arms waved to encompass the world in general, and the immediate area in specific.

He continued to pace and waved his hands in the air by way of demonstration, then stopped in frustration as the swishing of his trouser legs as they rubbed cloth against cloth - and skin - sounded his every move.

"I swish for crying out loud." Hands planted on his narrow hips met with the impervious slick feel of cardboard and threatened to slide away, so he anchored them in place by hooking his thumbs in his pockets. "This is one general who does not want to swish!"

Ida's hand covered a snort that turned into a cough. "I'll do that, Sir."

Jack glared down at her and Ida's features sobered - the diligent secretary stared back up at him, but her eyes glinted with suppressed laughter. "Was there anything else?"

"No..." he cocked his head to one side as if in thought and rubbed his chin, "Maybe."

He smiled, showing off his dimple in a move designed to ingratiate himself into her good graces. It didn't seem to work with her though. Come to think of it, that ploy hadn't worked with Walter either.

"Well?" She hadn't moved, and now a look of exasperation had replaced her previous smile. Plan A was scuttled as a dismal failure so he opted for Plan B - a feint that led to a frontal assault.

"Heard anything more from the Odyssey?" The dimple showed itself again, in an attempt at sincere innocence.

"No, Sir, not since you asked me five minutes ago . . . or the minute before that," she added with a wry grin, and then rolled her brown eyes. "And no, I do not think it would be a good idea to call the SGC again. Poor Walter sounded like he was on the verge of a stroke the last time you called."

'Crap, she's not buying it,' he gulped and opted for plan C - a strange concept called the truth.

"Oh. I was kind of hoping..." Jack hated the whine that had crept into his voice. When did that happen?

"I promise that I will notify you the minute I hear something, Sir." She sighed in resignation. "Listen, I don't blame you for worrying, I would too, in your place."

"Worried?" His eyebrows climbed to his hairline as one hand rose to thump against his chest but the effect was spoiled when it met the stiff cardboard of his shirt. "Me?"

"Yes, General O'Neill," Ida glared at him over her eyeglasses that perched precariously on the end of her nose, "You."

"It shows?" his question came out in a squeak and he cleared his throat nervously. 'Dang, so much for being the inscrutable Jack O'Neill, head of Home World security and first line of defense against the intergalactic bad guys,' he thought morosely.

"Ya think?" She frowned in reproof.

'The woman was definitely picking up Teal'c's bad habits, not to mention his eyebrow thingy.'

"It's not as if she can't take care of herself, you know," Jack fished a stray pen out of her pencil holder, ignoring Ida's abortive attempt to rescue it.

"You trained her well," Ida reassured him. "I should know, I read your reports."

"Oh, yeah, those," his long nimble fingers twirled the pen in a sequence of curves and loops, and finally ended with a double somersault into his waiting palm.

"Not to mention that she's a crack shot," she added.

"Yes, she is, isn't she?" The pen halted in his hand as he remembered how she'd nailed that swinging log and blown it to smithereens back on planet PR something or other. He smirked at the memory of the dumbfounded expressions on the faces of all those testosterone-ridden macho-type Jaffa. She'd made them look like idiots, but those Jaffa had it coming to them, especially their leader, who'd turned out to be an underhanded bottom-dwelling sneaky snakehead in Jaffa clothing.

When the phone rang, he jumped - then reached for it - but she grabbed it a nano-second ahead of him. "General O'Neill's office, this line is not secure, may I help you sir or ma'am?"

She paused and waved away Jack's impatient glare.

"Yes, Sir, I'll tell him immediately," her smile seemed to say 'I told you so' as she hung up the phone. "That was General Landry. The Odyssey and SG-1 made it home... all of them."

Jack's whoop of joy bounced off the walls of the room and out into the corridor, as the weight of the world seemed to evaporate off his shoulders. "Yes!" His hand pumped in a victory sign as he crouched, then bounced upward, "Never had a doubt in my mind that Carter would pull a rabbit out of her... hat again."

"Of course you did, Sir," Ida commented dryly.

O'Neill stopped his impromptu jig and stood stock still, his hands clasped dramatically over his chest, "You wound me, ma'am."

"Cut the bull, Sir," Ida frowned and rolled her eyes. "You've been a nervous wreck ever since you got that message and no one could contact her ship. If you knew what was good for you..."

"I'd what...?" Jack asked with a dangerous glint in his eye.

"You'd make an honest woman of her, and ask her to marry you. That's what," she paused, "Sir."

Jack's mouth fell open and then as he realized what she'd said, he shut it with a snap. "That I would, Ida. That I would," his jaw hardened as old worries reminded him of what he was - and who she was. "Do you think she'd have me? I mean . . . I'm not the best catch in the world - and what would a drop-dead-gorgeous genius like her see in a worn out ex-jet jockey with a few too many miles under the hood? Not to mention that she's a national treasure," he paused to savor the sweet memory of the last time they'd been together, a joyous smile of wonder on his face. "Did I mention that she's drop-dead-gorgeous?"

Ida looked at him, a look of disbelief on her face. "You're kidding, right?"

Her sarcastic comment snapped him out of his reverie of better times and Jack's eyebrows rose in mock consternation as he thumped his chest and then coughed, "Moi?"

"No, you probably aren't at that," she muttered half to herself. Then her eyes narrowed, "You know, for someone who's got as many brains as you do, you can be exceptionally dim at times."

Jack's eyes widened as he reeled from her accurate and deadly fire. His defense was a look of wounded pride. "It's what I do," he replied quietly with a shrug, hands searching for his pockets.

"You can't fool me, General. You've got a brain and you most certainly know how to use it. And as for Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter, she's nuts about you, you... you ninny!"

"Ninny?" Jack mouthed; mouth agape as she took him by surprise.

"Have you heard a single thing that I've said?" Her eyes narrowed.

Jack nodded, for once at a loss for words and reminded himself to put Ida in for a raise.

"Then I suggest you get down to the SGC and meet with the woman you love and ask her to marry you," Ida favored him with a knowing grin, "Sir."

Jack's gaze focused on the lintel above the door, seemingly lost in thought. His face lit up as if an idea had just occurred to him. "Yeah, maybe I should fly down to the SGC - a kind of welcome home thing. There'd probably be cake at a shindig like that." He considered for a moment, given temporary courage by Ida's assertion. "Yes, I think I'll do that," he grinned. "Me being a General and Head of Home World Security and all, that would be entirely in line with what I do, right? Besides, what's the worst that can happen?'

'She can turn you down, that's what, you... sorry excuse for husband material.'

"You'll do fine, sir. Hold on while I make the arrangements for your flight," Ida picked up the phone. "You can even pilot one of those X302's down to Peterson while you're at it. It'll do you good to get out." Her gaze strayed to her very full inbox, as if to remind him that she had a job to do.

Jack sobered for all of a second and then scrubbed his hands together with glee as he thought about piloting the fighter. "Sweet! What would I do without you, Ida?"

She halted in mid-dial, her retort on her lips. Jack waggled a finger, interrupting her reply, "Don't tell me, I really don't want to know."

"Whatever you say, sir," She grinned and continued with her phone call.

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