The Gift
By BadgerGater
Author's Notes: This fic is dedicated to the
memory of my Dad, who gave me many gifts, though rarely were they wrapped in
fancy paper or tied up with bows.
A man couldn't avoid it, no matter how hard he
tried.
Unless he'd stayed offworld, a possibility that
was becoming more and more desirable by the minute despite the fact that he'd
only spent two nights in the last month in his own house, sleeping in his own
bed.
Jack O'Neill sighed, and tried to tune out the
too-bright blinking red and green lights, the overly cheerful holiday music
wafting through the aisles of the store, and the hordes of harried, cranky
fellow shoppers. Christmas.
Not even the hardware store was immune from the
madness, for cryin' out loud.
He wasn't in the store for Christmas shopping. He
didn't have anyone to shop for, and even back in the days when he had, he'd
been one to run in, buy something, and run out.
Shopping was so not one of his favorite things.
Neither was Christmas.
Bah humbug.
Only necessity had forced him out into the retail
world on this December night.
Nasty surprise, returning from two weeks on
P4G-hole in the ground to discover that the toilet in the master bathroom was
running.
Rattling the handle hadn't helped.
Kicking the porcelain throne hadn't solved the
dilemma.
The twelve new swear words he'd learned on P2R-888
hadn't changed the situation, either.
He didn't even want to consider what next month's
water bill was going to be.
Was there a way he write it off on his expense
report as a combat-zone hazard?
Oiy.
Merry Christmas, Jack.
So here he was, on Christmas Eve, searching the aisles
in the hardware store for a part for the john. And, of course, there wasn't a
real hardware guy in the place, only pimply faced high schoolers wearing gaudy
green vests, who knew all about the toys and the electronic gadgets, and
wouldn't know a Phillips screwdriver from a set wrench.
Jack wandered down another aisle past rows of
gleaming silver things, most of which, he had to admit, even he himself didn't
know what they were.
He'd just found a stack of little springs that
looked sort of like the little spring he needed to repair the bathroom
plumbing, when one of those overly young, overly cheerful, underly
knowledgeable 'store assistants' came hurrying around a stack of boxed neon
colored garland, and nearly ran him over. Jack jumped back, feeling his knee
buckle and twinge alarmingly, but thankfully managing to stay upright and
retain what remained of his dignity.
"Sorry, Sir," the young man turned
toward him, face reddened.
Something in the face was familiar.
Jack stared, realized he was staring, but kept
looking anyway, wondering how he knew this young man, tall and
broad-shouldered, a hint of beard on the chin.
The young man was staring back, the blue eyes
looking slightly puzzled, and then the face lit up with recognition. "Mr.
O'Neill!"
"Yes," Jack answered cautiously, still
unsure of what was familiar about this kid.
"I'm Jeremy Swanson. You were Charlie's
dad..."
"Yes, I was," Jack answered slowly,
looking hard at the tall young man in front of him, not seeing the resemblance
to the short, awkward kid who'd been on Charlie's youth hockey team.
"You coached my hockey team that year, the
year...." Jeremy's voice died away.
"Yes, I did," Jack said quickly, cutting
off the rest of the statement, remembering a whole mob of loud, overactive boys
racing around the rink in gleeful confusion. A good memory. "That was a
long time ago."
"You were a good coach. More fun than Mr.
Davis. Charlie always used to do these imitations of him, making
faces...." Jeremy stopped, looked down at his shoes, then raised his eyes.
"I still miss him."
Jack swallowed. "So do I."
"He was funny. And a good hockey
player."
"Yes he was," Jack's voice was soft, his
eyes distant, focused on a time and place long ago, and long gone.
"Wish he was here. Our high school team,
we're not so good this year. Charlie had the best slap shot..."
Jack nodded.
"We still talk about him, sometimes, like at
practice, about the things he used to do..."
"That's good to know."
"It's so unfair."
"Yes, it is," Jack choked out past the
lump that had somehow materialized in his throat.
Suddenly, the holiday music on the intercom was
interrupted. "Customer service to aisle 9, customer service to aisle
9."
"Gee, guess that's me." The young man
held out his hand, and Jack shook it. "It was good to see you, Mr.
O'Neill. Have a Merry Christmas."
"You too, Jeremy," Jack said, watching
the youngster go.
As Jeremy reached the end of the aisle, he
suddenly skidded to a halt, turned, and smiled. "School's out for the
holidays, but the day after Christmas we've got an informal practice, down at
the Kenley Park rink, at 9 a.m. If you want to stop by..."
"I don't play anymore. The knees aren't up to
it," Jack excused himself.
"Well, the invitation's open. We could always
use some pointers. Bye." And the boy turned, and was gone.
Jack stood staring after Jeremy for a long time,
trying to remember the young boys he'd once coached, realizing that the passing
of time had robbed his memory of their names and faces, like an old photograph
fading away.
He rubbed a hand across his face, and up through
his silvered hair, and wondered where the years had gone.
Mind on other things, Jack found the plumbing
supplies he needed, and returned to his dark and silent house. He didn't need
to turn on the porch light, the glow from the neighbors' Christmas light
displays illuminated the whole street. His house looked empty, dark and
foreboding, and he suddenly regretted his decision not to put up a tree. Maybe
he could find that little desk-sized fir Cassie had made him buy a couple of
years ago. Yeah, that would be good. Add a touch of Christmas.
Every house should have something of Christmas,
even something so little.
An hour later, plumbing repaired and tree found,
Jack slumped on the living room couch, beer in hand, and switched on the TV,
flipping through the channels until he found the NHL game. He missed playing,
but his knees and his back couldn't take the hitting anymore. Last time he'd
skated, he'd barely been able to walk the next day. Doc Fraiser had read him
the riot act, and suggested he make a decision between hockey and the air
force. Much as he loved the game, the SGC and SG-1 still came first.
He hated growing older.
Which made him think of something else. He reached
for the phone and made a couple of calls, and eventually found who he was
looking for, and made his request.
December 26 dawned clear and cold. Jack bundled
into his warmest jacket, beanie hat and gloves, and started the pick-up,
letting the truck idle to get warm before putting it in gear and driving off
down the street. He followed the directions to the unfamiliar home, but knew he
had the right address when he saw a gangly teenage form standing by the front
door, over-sized gear bag in hand. Jack pulled into the driveway, and the young
man walked laconically over, climbing in without so much as a hello.
Not that Jack had expected one.
They rode in silence across town, Jack parking the
Ford along the street within sight of the ice rink. As he climbed out he could
already hear the familiar sounds of skates slicing across the frozen surface,
the staccato slapping noise of sticks on ice, and the chatter of excited young
voices.
Side by side, the two of them walked over to the
rink.
"Hi Mr. O'Neill," Jeremy called, skating
over, his face flushed from the cold. "I didn't think you'd come..."
"Brought a friend, actually. He's kind of new
to town, but he's a pretty good hockey player..." Jack turned to the
younger version of himself. "John, this is Jeremy..."
Introductions complete, it took the young O’Neill
only minutes to don skates and gear and join the others on the ice.
Jack stood and watched as the young men skated,
gliding around the ice with the grace and strength of youth. Sadness welled up
inside him, watching them, feeling left out of their excitement, no longer part
of things he’d once shared but that decades of hard living had taken from him.
He shivered, feeling the cold wind, knowing that
out there, in the heat of competition, the boys weren’t feeling the cold.
You had to be old and tired to feel the bitter
wind.
“Mr. O’Neill?” Jeremy had skated over to the edge
of the ice near the bench. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
Another one of the youngsters skated up beside the
friendly store clerk. “You can skate with us. We’re short one. Evan had to go
visit his grandparents…”
“I didn’t bring my skates,” good excuse and true,
Jack thought.
“I’ve got an extra pair, Sir,” Jeremy offered. “I
got new ones for Christmas,” he pointed down proudly at the unscuffed Graf
Supra's that he wore. “You can wear my old ones. They’re Bauers, size 11s.”
The word ‘no’ was on the tip of his tongue, and
then Jack thought, what the hell. Once more, for old time’s sake, one game
couldn’t hurt.
Might be fun, actually.
So he sat down on the bench, pulling off his
leather gloves to lace up Jeremy’s old skates. They fit pretty good, actually.
Felt good, too, he thought, as he stepped out onto the ice and took several
tentative strides, his body remembering what it needed to do to balance and
move.
Someone handed him a stick and his hands
instinctively moved into the proper position, gripping it, sliding it along the
ice in front of him as he made several laps of the rink to warm up.
“Not bad for an old guy,” a familiar voice called
out to him.
Jack looked over to see his younger self, and
grinned. “Just remember, no hitting the old man, okay?”
The boys all nodded in agreement, a chorus of
“Yes, Sir,” floating through the cold air.
Someone dropped the puck.
Though he’d promised himself he’d stay out of the
thick of things, he couldn’t. It wasn’t Jack’s nature to hold back, and within
minutes, he found himself in the midst of a scramble for the puck. Someone hit
him from behind and he slammed into the boards, and went down.
The ice was cold.
And unforgiving.
Hard.
All around him the action stopped.
Silence reigned, broken only by the ragged breathing
of exertion.
“Mr. O’Neill, are you all right?” asked one of the
kids finally.
“Oh, sure, fine,” Jack lied, knowing he’d have
bruises tomorrow but tomorrow was tomorrow. He could take a couple of Tylenol
and soak in a hot tub and maybe Doc would never know. Yeah, right.
Scrambling back up on his skates, pretending he
was just fine and his backside wasn’t throbbing, “let’s play, eh?” he
suggested.
They played.
He was feeling winded, the cold air burning his
throat, but Jack suddenly realized he was enjoying himself, enjoying himself in
a way he hadn’t for a long time.
Feeling free.
Feeling good.
Feeling alive.
Maybe not young, he thought ruefully, as he looked
across the ice at John, his eyes narrowing as he made a move for the puck,
stripping it off the stick of one of the high schoolers, and carrying it out of
the defensive zone. Jack pushed off, his knees protesting as he gained speed.
Down the ice in strides not quite as long or graceful as they'd once been, but
controlling the puck with practiced stick moves, using his experience to
counteract the speed he’d lost. Halfway down the rink from the corner of his
eye, he caught sight of one of his teammates, in perfect position on his wing.
Jack flipped the puck across to John. WIth an eerie sense of deja' vu, O'Neill
knew exactly what the boy was going to do.
The Colonel watched as the youngster skated deftly
around a defender, stick handling the puck. Suppressing a moment of envy, and
ignoring the twinge to his pride, he remembered that he'd once skated like
that, back before his knees were in shreds. Jack watched in admiration as his
younger self darted past the last defender, feinted a shot down low and slapped
the shot home into the upper lefthand corner of the net, just past the
outstretched glove of the goalie.
Wayne Gretzky himself, in his prime, couldn't have
done better.
John’s eyes lit up. He raised his arms in the air
in triumph, a gleeful shouted “Yes” echoing across the ice as he skated behind
the net and across to Jack, high fiving the other players, until the two of
them came face to face.
John and Jack.
Young and old.
The future, and, no, not the past, Jack thought,
the future and the present.
“Good job, kid,” Jack praised in genuine
enthusiasm.
“Not bad for an old man,” John looked across at Jack,
smiling.
"Not bad? That was a gift, kid, a gift."
But then again, it was the Christmas season, and
gifts were appropriate.