*Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.*
The wipers beat back and forth across the windshield, futilely trying to rid the glass of snow. The snow came as fast as the wipers worked, swirling onto the windshield as well as the road ahead. It seemed to be falling harder now. Headlights stabbed into the gray darkness, illuminating the persistent bits of white.
"Well, this is a hell of a lot of fun," Jack said out loud, just to hear what it sounded like. It didn't sound good, so he lapsed back into silence.
*Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.*
The interior of the car, a government-owned sedan with front-wheel drive, was dark, save for the soft lights of the dashboard. Jack risked a quick glance at the odometer. A mile. One lousy mile since the last time he looked, which felt like a half-hour ago. He shifted his gaze once again through the windshield, studying tracks ahead and roadside reflectors to determine where the road lay.
A gust of wind sent the tires skittering slightly. Jack's hands, already set at ten and two on the wheel, tightened compulsively without wrenching it. He'd been driving on snow and ice since he was sixteen, but that didn't mean it was his favorite thing to do.
In fact, if given options, he'd be home right now. Doing anything. Anything at all. Anything that wasn't inching his way south on I-25, convinced that he wasn't really going anywhere.
Snow and the night obliterated most landmarks. Castle Rock had come and gone, taking most of the evening traffic with it. He'd crawled past the Larkspur and Palmer Lake exits, which meant Monument couldn't be too far ahead. Hopefully by then he'd be out of the worst of the storm and able to make better time. So far, snow and traffic had extended what should have been an hour-long drive from north Denver to over three hours. At this rate, it was going to be at least another hour before he reached the Broadmoor. He was actually supposed to return the car to the motor pool at Cheyenne Mountain, but that could wait until tomorrow. And if they guys at the motor pool weren't okay with that, they'd have to send someone over to Jack's house to pick it up.
Jack spared another look at the odometer. A mile and a half. Sonofabitch.
*Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.*
His headlights picked out a snow-blown sign that was mostly illegible, but which he knew told him he was starting up Monument Hill. *About damn time.*
"About damn time," he mumbled out loud, but that sounded as forlorn as his last verbalization. What he wouldn't give for a stargate right about now. He just wanted to be home, and he was never going to get there.
The snow increased; his speed slipped from thirty-five to thirty. Finding the road in this insular, dark world became more and more of a challenge. And it was dark, Jack realized. He had not noticed any headlights in the oncoming lanes since Palmer Lake. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the road behind to be empty as well. No one was ever this alone on I-25.
*Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.*
The car slipped a little on the snow-covered road as the grade increased. Jack eased slightly off the accelerator, letting the tires catch their own traction. Some people really liked front-wheel drive; he was not one of them. Jack came out of the school of thought that held that once the front end of one of those cars started veering for the soft side of a snowy road,
the point of no return had already been passed. On the other hand, he was just as happy not to be behind the wheel of his truck. He'd opted for the half-ton model, not quite as heavy as the three-quarter-ton. It was a move that made sense until he needed to negotiate snowy roads in a vehicle that had almost no weight in the back.
Jack's eyes fell to the odometer. Almost two miles since he last looked. At this rate, he'd reach home in time for his retirement party.
*Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.*
Not that he was retiring any time soon, even if days like today gave him a headache.
He'd left NORAD before dawn, summoned to a regional meeting on national security at Buckley Air Force Base in Denver. September 11 had brought about a lot of these meetings, and although there were bigger threats out there of which most people were unaware, Jack's previous experience in the Middle East made him a frequently called-upon consultant. But a meeting was a
meeting was a meeting, and this one had lasted about three hours longer than it needed to. Too many people who liked to hear themselves talk. That right there was why Jack never envied people like General Hammond, who had to deal with situations and people like that daily.
Still alone on the dark road, lit only by his headlights without and the small colored lights of the dash within, Jack topped out on Monument Hill -- and looked down into a sea of red tail lights and, farther in the distance, the flashing red, yellow and white of emergency vehicles.
Directly ahead of him, behind the last set of tail lights, was a snow-covered state trooper swinging a hooded flashlight. Jack crawled to a stop behind the car and rolled down his window as the trooper, looking a bit blue around the gills, leaned in. "We have a situation," the trooper said from under the broad brim of her hat, which she'd covered in plastic. "There's been a twenty-three car pile-up, and you'll have to wait here."
"I'm Colonel Jack O'Neill, stationed at Cheyenne Mountain. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No sir," the trooper replied. "You're coming up on the tail end of it. All casualties have been removed, and now it's just a matter of clearing a path so all you folks can get on your way."
"Wouldn't it be better to send us back up to Palmer Lake and detour us down 83?"
The trooper shook her head. "Sorry, sir. You're the last one through -- they closed the highway behind you. On the plus side, the snow starts thinning from here south, and by the time you reach the Academy it's only wet, not snow-packed."
Jack nodded. "All right." Then, as she turned back toward the scene of carnage somewhere out of sight ahead of them, Jack called, "Trooper? Any idea how long we're lookin' at here?"
"Half-hour or so, sir. Just be patient."
Easy for her to say that, he thought, rolling up his window and setting his emergency brake. Most of her job consisted of sitting in a car, so she was probably proficient at it. He, on the other hand, had already spent the whole day sitting, his limited patience tried first by long-winded military brass and next by slow-moving commuters. Half an hour?
Jack looked at his gas gauge, thought about carbon monoxide, and shut his engine off.
Silence.
He left his parking lights on, just in case the trooper was wrong and someone came up behind him. Ahead of him winked a lot of red lights. Emergency beacons spilled a spotty illumination out to either side of the interstate, bouncing back down off the snow clouds to cast a yellowish glow over the surrounding area. Despite all that, it was easy to feel very alone in the sedan.
Jack consulted his watch and sighed. Three minutes since he'd been stopped. He really was never getting home.
He didn't even know what his rush was for. There wasn't a whole hell of a lot waiting for him at home. But somehow that scenario sounded substantially less bleak than sitting trapped in a car in this muted landscape, blanketed by snow that continued to fall, boxing him in now that the wipers had stopped.
Jack drummed his fingers on the wheel, watching the world grow dimmer and smaller as snow obscured his windshield. He looked at his watch again, just as he decided the sedan's interior had cooled substantially, since the heater was no longer running. Ten minutes. His toes were cold.
He started the car and now heard the sounds he'd ignored before: the soft whir of the heater and the steady growl of the engine. And, of course, the wipers.
*Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.*
It was a lonely sound, as bad as clanking wind chimes. Convulsively, Jack reached out for the radio.
*And so this is Christmas
And what have we done?
Another year over
And you've just begun*
As abruptly as he'd flipped it on, Jack snapped the radio off. That was why he hadn't had it on in the first place, he remembered. He studied his watch and turned off the car. Fifteen minutes.
And so this is Christmas. Jack really rathered it wasn't. December was nothing more than an excruciating month to be suffered through, dodging crowds when he had to go shopping, trying to avoid people who looked like they might want to invite him to parties, opening cards from people who never bothered to write otherwise and to whom he never replied, driving through his lit-up neighborhood, and listening to overly sacchrine music blaring from radios, CD players and downtown loudspeakers.
Pretending none of it hurt.
Jack rubbed his eyes, blotting out his view of the snowy windshield that was once again blotting out his view of red and white lights. He'd already volunteered to keep an eye on the SGC so that Hammond could have an unimpeded holiday with his daughters and grandchildren. They'd had the same conversation they had every year, with Jack volunteering, Hammond asking once if he was sure, and then accepting the offer without further comment. That was the one good thing about December: it reminded Jack that he had a pretty damn fine CO.
So once again it would be Jack rattling around concrete halls that were empty save for the likes of Sergeant Goldman and Lieutenant Feinstein, as well as Captain Connor, who celebrated Solstice instead of Christmas. But at least those folks still had things to celebrate.
This was what Jack really hated about the season: it made him feel sorry for himself. And that was hardly productive.
It grew cold in the car once more. He hadn't bothered with any layer other than his dress blues blouse, knowing he wasn't going anywhere but a conference room and a heated car. He'd lived in cold-weather climes long enough to know that wasn't the smartest approach, but then, no one had ever accused him of being too smart for his own good.
He restarted the car, turning the heater up a notch before checking his watch. Twenty minutes. He alternately tightened and loosened his fingers on the wheel, thinking about opening the glovebox but deciding there wouldn't be much in it beyond the registration and proof of insurance. Maybe an ice scraper: he hadn't even bothered to check that before starting out that
morning.
*Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.*
The wipers didn't seem to need to work quite as hard now. Jack peered up toward the gray canopy sitting oppressively over the night: snow still filtered down, but not as furiously. Lights continued to spin up ahead, putting an incandescence onto the solid cloud cover. He wondered if anyone had died in the pile-up, and if so, who would get the unpleasant chore of delivering the news to family members. He'd been on both ends of that task, and while one was certainly much harder, neither end was easy.
Unbidden, unwanted, a memory surfaced: him, sitting on a bed, despondent, contemplating the pistol in his hands. He'd been sitting there like that for a long time, not thinking. Not daring to think. Because he knew what he'd do if he thought at all. He still didn't know what might have happened had those two Air Force officers not come through the door. Although he'd really believed their proposal was just a longer-term, nobler approach to the same result.
Jack slammed his hands against the wheel. Damn it! He needed to be moving. To be doing something. Anything to keep from thinking. He cast about the car, but came up with nothing. It was a government vehicle, devoid of personality. He should've borrowed Daniel's car: it was littered with all kinds of crap.
In desperation, he did try the glovebox. He was sprawled across the front seat, hand delving into the recesses of the predictably empty space, when someone knocked on the driver's-side window. Jack righted himself with the aid of the steering wheel, then rolled down the glass for the state trooper. The tail lights from the car in front of him grew brighter as the driver stepped on the brake, and then the white reverse lights blinked, indicating a shift from 'park' to 'drive.'
"You have a go," the trooper said, and Jack wondered if she knew she sounded a little like George Hammond. "Just take it real slow through the accident scene, and be careful, because there's still ice for the next few miles."
"Yes, ma'am," Jack said. Examining her pinched features he added, "They gonna let you get out of this weather any time soon?"
She smiled for him. "Soon enough. Drive safely, sir. Merry Christmas."
"Same to you," he muttered as she backed away. Even at the scene of an accident he couldn't get away from it, he thought, releasing the emergency brake and rolling forward with the momentum of the hill. He shifted into drive and followed the slow trail of red lights ahead of him.
As he got closer he smelled the accident: acrid odors of metal and rubber, spilled radiator fluid and oil, a stench of gasoline and the scent of assistance in the form of chemical foam. The smells grew stronger and the air colder, so he rolled up his window, returning to his own little world. His tires crunched across what were probably broken bits of glass well before he reached the first of the shunted cars strewn everywhere, mangled beasts awaiting the tender mercies of a pantheon of law enforcement officials, rescue workers and tow-truck drivers.
Jack inched his way past all of it, concentrating mostly on keeping his car where it belonged on the ice-slick road. As he reached the front end of the pile-up, however, his eyes got caught by one car in particular. Obviously slammed from both the front and back, and possibly on the side, it had crushed as easily as an aluminum can, drawn down almost into a cube. *No one walked away from that one,* Jack thought, seeing what was left of the driver's door wrenched off and cast to the side by extrication equipment. Just beyond it, on the shoulder of the interstate, a lone trooper, his jacket plastered with snow, stood, rocking slightly on his feet as he surveyed the carnage. *So this is Christmas.*
Jack followed the string of intact cars as they wended their way through the last of the wreckage and rescue workers, still surrounded by lights swirling silently across the snowy night. The snow dropped more gently, its wrath dissipating now that mayhem had been achieved.
Five miles farther south, he drove out of the storm. Clouds still covered the sky, bathed in orange from the lights of Colorado Springs, but they no longer leaked a lethal precipitation.
*Ka-thunk. Ka-*
Jack shut the wipers off and rode with only the heater for company. The radio would be nice, soothing even, after the nerve-wracking journey of the past several hours, if it was playing regular music, but he wasn't willing to take that chance. Instead, he stepped on the accelerator, reaching the prescribed sixty-five miles per hour for the first time all drive. He just wanted to be home.
Finally he made it to the north end of the Springs. Traffic picked up, clogging the interstate -- he should have voted for that last highway improvement bond -- and he was once again forced to reduce his speed. "Damn it," he whispered, no longer caring how it sounded out loud.
He wondered if he had anything that would pass for food in his house. It was long past his usual dinner hour, and he was famished. But he was headed straight home. No grocery, no convenience store, no gas station. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Just home. Get home and stay there and never get on I-25 ever again. He wondered if he had any whiskey, because beer just wasn't going to cut it.
At long, interminable, three-lifetimes-later last, he reached the Broadmoor exit and took it, finally less than a mile from home. Jesus!
For once, he didn't care that many of his neighbors had decorated their houses as he drove past on the way to his own cul-de-sac. In fact, it even struck him as welcoming after the ordeal of the highway and all of its obscene flashing lights.
His house was dark, except for the light over the driveway. He hadn't left any interior lights on, fully expecting to be back before evening. Stumbling up the unlit walk, he reached his door, bereft of any holiday decorations. He had none inside the house, either, save for the pressed cardboard holiday toucan that had come out of his cereal the other day and was now reposing on his kitchen table.
He fumbled with his key; he fumbled with his hall light. Could it possibly take any longer to actually get home? But at last he was in, the door closed firmly behind him, shutting out the weather, roadside mayhem, and Christmas cheer.
He started shedding clothes immediately. The tie, the jacket, the shoes -- maybe he hadn't scuffed them too badly, and they wouldn't need too much polishing before their next outing -- all came off before he moved from the hall. He had his dress shirt off and his pants unbuckled as he quit the bathroom for the kitchen. It was too late to contemplate actually changing clothes: he was going to eat something, he was going to drink something, and then he was going to bed.
Pickings for dinner turned out to be even slimmer than anticipated. He had cereal, but no milk; a can of soup; some pasta, but nothing that would qualify as sauce; and a can of beans. He did find a frozen pizza, but that was going to take too long. Soup it was, then, and dry cereal while it was heating. He should probably put the pizza in too, because one little can of soup was not going to assuage his hunger.
The good news was that the fifth of Wild Turkey in his cupboard was nearly full.
Deciding to reorganize his plan for what little remained of the evening, he poured himself a tumbler of the whiskey and started there instead, the liquid exploding warmly in his empty stomach.
With the soup on and the pizza in, he wandered out to the dining room and only then noticed his answering machine, yet another red light winking furiously at him this evening. He stared at the machine for a long moment: usually it remained quiescent, the red light steady. Tonight there had to be at least five messages on there -- he wasn't bothering to count the sequence of flashes. Probably every last one of them was from some guy at the motor pool, wanting to know where the hell his car was. Jack's truck was still in the parking lot at Cheyenne Mountain; it was a more than even trade.
Sighing, Jack reached out for 'play,' hearing the machine whir as it rewound and rewound and rewound. And rewound.
"Hey, Jack," the first message began, and carefully he set his tumbler on the table, giving full attention to Sara's voice as it emanated off the small tape. "I hope you don't mind that I'm calling you. It's just . . . I know it's hard, and I wanted . . . to see how you're doing. You're probably away somewhere, and won't even get this until January, but I thought I'd try . . . I just -- I hope you're okay, and . . . and I was thinking about you, that's all." There was a pause as she cleared her throat. "Assuming the weather's okay, I'm leaving tomorrow; gonna spend Christmas with my sister."
*Better you than me,* Jack thought. But at least he no longer said that sort of thing out loud. And, of course, Sara wasn't in the room to hear him.
"So I wanted to call you before . . . before I left. You don't have to call back if you get this in time, but I thought -- I just -- Have a good Christmas, Jack." The message ended.
He wondered what she wasn't saying. He could guess, but he might be all wrong. Since he wasn't going to call her back, he'd probably never know. Maybe in January, let her think she'd been right about that. . .
"O'Neill, it is I." Teal'c's voice boomed into the room from the tape, the antithesis of Sara's diffidence. Teal'c, Jack remembered, would also be at the SGC for the holidays, since they were holidays that meant nothing to him. "Airman Jenkins has reported that you have not returned a vehicle to the motor pool."
*Knew it,* Jack thought sardonically.
"The airman further reports that your vehicle is still parked here. I am attempting to ascertain your whereabouts." Without the pleasantry of a sign-off, Teal'c's message ended.
Nice to know the big guy was concerned. Jack remembered his glass and swirled the contents, staring into the amber depths. Although he wouldn't say anything, Teal'c would spend Christmas Day close by his teammate. Jack could bank on that.
"Colonel, this is General Hammond." The general's voice, Jack reflected, fell neatly in the middle, volumewise, between Sara's and Teal'c's. "You didn't report back to the base, so I'm assuming your meeting ran longer than expected. If you want to call and confirm that, I'll be at home this evening. Otherwise, I'll check with you on Monday." He also hung up without a farewell.
Reports could wait until Monday, Jack decided. The meeting had not covered any unexpected or new ground. He took a drink: this slug of whiskey didn't hit as hard as the first.
"Um, hi, Jack, it's Daniel." Daniel sounded distracted, a theory that was confirmed when he muttered, "Oh, there we go" into the phone. Whatever he'd done cleared something up, because suddenly he was speaking directly into the mouthpiece. "Listen, General Hammond was just by and seemed a little, a little concerned. I think he thought you'd be back by now. It's supposed to be snowing in Denver, I guess."
Jack could tell Daniel's attention had been caught by something else again, as his voice faded on the last few words. As he waited, Jack decided he probably ought to call Hammond with a report tonight. Daniel's pause was followed by a faint exclamation, and then he spoke again.
"Anyway, the general sounded . . . concerned, so I thought I'd call. I'm gonna . . . stay here until -- until I get this -- oh, I see. Listen, Jack, I've gotta go now, but maybe you could call when you get in. I'll either be home or -- oh!" Jack expected the message to end there, but instead he got another pause and then a, "Call me, okay?" before Daniel terminated the
connection.
Jack shook his head. Daniel. If he got carried away, he'd probably forget to go home for the weekend. He was going to be at the SGC all next week, too, Jack realized. Christmas didn't hold much meaning for Daniel, and obviously he had at least one project to keep him busy. But he might be willing to fit a game of chess somewhere into his schedule on Tuesday. Jack would suggest it when he next talked to Daniel. Not tonight, though: Daniel probably didn't even remember making that call.
"Jack?" It was Daniel again. "I'm serious. Give me a call when you get home."
All right, so he'd call Daniel too.
"Hey, Jack, it's Cassandra." He smiled; she was in high school now, and 'Cassandra' sounded more mature to her. But he still called her Cassie. Especially when she told him not to. "Mom just got home and said she heard on the radio that it's snowing pretty bad up by Castle Rock. She said you were in Denver today and aren't back yet, so I wanted to call and see if you were all right."
All right, or home without participating in a twenty-three car pile-up? They were two different things, but Jack didn't expect Cassie to know that.
"Also, Mom's having some people over tomorrow night, and she wants to know if you'll come. I know you probably won't, but I'd really like it if you would. Please?"
*Oh, Cassie.* If other women could reach his soft spots the way she did, he'd never say no to any of them.
"So call when you get home, 'kay? Okay, bye."
Jack set his glass against his lower lip but forgot to sip, staring instead blindly at the window, which was reflecting his image back at him. He should probably call, but he wasn't going to the party. Janet would understand, but Cassie wouldn't. Breaking fifteen-year-old hearts was a very Grinch-like thing to do. Maybe he could make up for it by doing something equally excruciating, like taking her shopping on Sunday. No one would expect him to be pleasant in a mall two days before Christmas.
"Colonel?" Jack's head swivelled sharply, the machine suddenly commanding all his attention. Her voice was hesitant. "It's me, Carter." She above all people didn't have to identify herself: he knew exactly what her voice sounded like. "I'm sorry to bother you, sir, and it sounds like you've already had lots of calls tonight, but . . . well, I was just watching TV and they said there was a big pile-up on Monument Hill, and I wanted -- "
To make sure he wasn't a pile of pile-up mush?
" -- to make sure you got through before they closed the highway."
Perhaps Carter was a little too confident in him. It'd be nice to know she was the smallest bit concerned.
"So I thought, if it's not too much trouble, that maybe you could call when you get in."
He was going to take that as concern, even though she was still assuming he wasn't pile-up mush and that he did get through.
She then rattled off her number and paused. "I know it was a long day, with the meeting and traffic, and you probably don't feel like talking to a bunch of people -- "
*Carter, you've never been a bunch of people.* Holding his tumbler between thumb and middle finger, Jack ran his index finger across the smooth rim.
" -- so if you're too tired or don't wanna call, that's okay too. I'll just see you on Monday then."
He had fully expected her to request leave in order to spend Christmas with Mark and his family, but she hadn't. Jack had started to ask why several times, but never quite did. Some brave soldier he was. But it meant that Carter, too, would be at work on Tuesday.
"Unless you're going to Janet's get-together tomorrow night. But I'm betting you aren't, so I'll just see you on Monday. Sorry to bother you at home, sir." She hung up.
Oh, she bothered him all right, but that had nothing to do with phone calls. Would it be so bad if he went to Frasier's? Just stuck his head in for a minute? It would make Cassie happy.
Something plucked at Jack's nostrils. That had to be a real talent, scorching canned soup. He started for the kitchen, but the machine wasn't done yet.
"Sorry to bother you again, sir."
Jack forgot about burning soup and moved back closer to the phone.
"I'm still watching TV, and the motor pool says you still haven't returned the car -- "
Carter? Checking up on him?
" -- and I've decided I would definitely appreciate it if you'd call me whenever you get this message."
So she was concerned. That was good to know.
She paused for a long, long moment. Jack waited, distantly smelling soup that wasn't getting any less burned. "And . . . since we're not face to face, or even voice to voice, and I'm kind of hoping that by the time you listen to this you'll have had enough to drink on an empty stomach that it will all seem fuzzy in the morning . . ."
Rattled, Jack looked down at the glass in his hand before setting it on the table. He didn't expect anyone to know him that well. Not anymore. Although she wasn't completely right: two good swallows were not enough to make things fuzzy, empty stomach or not.
"I think you should go to Janet's party."
It was a definitive statement, bald and bold. Jack stared at his answering machine.
"Believe me, I know what I'm asking. I do. But . . . it's been a long time -- "
*You have no idea.*
" -- and things . . . change. You need to do this."
*No I don't.*
"If you're not going to do it for yourself, then, well, it would mean a lot to Cassie. And to -- "
*Say "me," Carter. Just once.*
"--the rest of us. I don't mean to pry into your personal life -- "
*Too late.*
" -- but I don't think you should make this harder than it has to be. You do have friends, Colonel."
Yeah, his answering machine had figured that out, even if he hadn't.
"So I'm just saying . . . Never mind. You do what you want to, sir. But I'd still like to know if you make it back tonight. No matter how late it is."
What the hell was he supposed to say if he called her? Hi, Carter, I'm back, glad you missed me, but don't make me feel guilty for not going to a damn Christmas party? Although maybe it wouldn't kill him to go. Just for a little while. Maybe a maybe would be enough to make her happy. He wouldn't know until he called, though, right?
"Good night, sir. Merry Christmas." She hung up.
The tape ran a little longer, then beeped twice, signifying the end of the string of messages. Suddenly the house felt emptier than it had. And now that the tape had stopped, he could quite clearly hear the soup bubbling over onto the burner. He headed for the kitchen to effect a rescue operation. Remembering his hunger, he wondered if he was desperate enough to down overly hot, burned soup. Although if he paid a little more attention, the pizza would be salvageable. And maybe that would be enough.
Enough . . .That's all his friends were asking for. Just what he could give, and no more. They wanted him to be at peace, if not happy. They just wanted to help. If he'd let them. Good thing they weren't expecting that to be easy. The process was going to be kind of like driving from Denver in a rush-hour blizzard.
A check of the oven timer showed the pizza still had five minutes to go. Deciding half-baked was better than imminent starvation, Jack retrieved it early, stuffing a full half slice into his mouth while it was still too hot. Never accused of having too many smarts.
He tracked back out to his whiskey, curling his tongue as he sucked in air, aiming for the roof of his mouth. Maybe he'd make his first phone call while prudently waiting for the pizza to cool. As many calls as he had to make, he might as well get started. No point in making people worry needlessly. And it wouldn't hurt to let them know he appreciated their concern.
After all, it was Christmas, right?
Story Notes: Email: cabana_boy@holyorder.com
Status: Complete
Category: Christmas
Rating: PG-13
Season/Sequel Info: none
Spoilers: none
Archive: Yes, please. Sam and Jack and Heliopolis.
Story Notes/disclaimer:
Christmas, 2001.
I'm beginning to spend so much time with him that he feels like he's mine, but I have to shamefully confess I did not create Jack O'Neill; I simply stole him and all his friends. I feel really, really bad about this, too. I stole from John Lennon, also, and I feel sorta bad about that as well. But there's no money involved, which should make all of us feel bad.
Sadly, no technical consultant was required for this story. A question here, a web check there, but all the blizzard info comes first-hand, as does the empty larder.
Now that it's written, this is for my friend Lora, in the hope that someday Christmas might be a happier time for her.
Fun factoid: Every year NORAD, utilizing the technology available at Cheyenne Mountain, tracks Santa's progress around the world on Christmas Eve. And don't forget: Santa's Workshop at the North Pole is for some inexplicable reason located just west of Colorado Springs, so you can visit him all year long while in the area.
http://www.montrose.net/toulouse/index.htm
Status: Complete
Category: Christmas
Rating: PG-13
Season/Sequel Info: none
Spoilers: none
Archive: Yes, please. Sam and Jack and Heliopolis.
Story Notes/disclaimer:
Christmas, 2001.
I'm beginning to spend so much time with him that he feels like he's mine, but I have to shamefully confess I did not create Jack O'Neill; I simply stole him and all his friends. I feel really, really bad about this, too. I stole from John Lennon, also, and I feel sorta bad about that as well. But there's no money involved, which should make all of us feel bad.
Sadly, no technical consultant was required for this story. A question here, a web check there, but all the blizzard info comes first-hand, as does the empty larder.
Now that it's written, this is for my friend Lora, in the hope that someday Christmas might be a happier time for her.
Fun factoid: Every year NORAD, utilizing the technology available at Cheyenne Mountain, tracks Santa's progress around the world on Christmas Eve. And don't forget: Santa's Workshop at the North Pole is for some inexplicable reason located just west of Colorado Springs, so you can visit him all year long while in the area.
http://www.montrose.net/toulouse/index.htm
End Notes: *So Merry Christmas
And Happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one without any fear*
And Happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one without any fear*
DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognisable characters, settings, etc, are the property of their respective owners. Any original characters and plots are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. ... [ read more ]