Opening the Book
I don't own them. Kinda wish I did because then this whole losing my job thing would be totally moot. Plus, it'd be cool. Joss Whedon owns Buffy and...other people own Stargate: SG-1. And Dr. Seuss is the author of the last line I quoted, it's from "The Cat in the Hat Comes Back."Author's Note
So here's the scoop. I've dabbled in Buffy fic writing before. But I've read TONS. I've just recently been watching Stargate SG-1. Unfortunately, Netflix first decided that season 3 needed to be in French, and has now just taken it down all together. So for time line this is post season 7 of Buffy (but no Season 8, I've read them all and I still don't get them, nor do I really like them all that much.) And after Season 2 of Stargate because I know nothing else. (I should wait to write this, but I've read all of the Jack/Buffy fic that I can find--most of which is pretty amazing. I only hope to be half as good as some of the stories out there--which so many are sadly unfinished.) Update
Many thanks to RevDorothyL who sent along some helpful changes to this story--so for those of you who were turned off by me spelling Joss' name wrong (uh whoops, I know better I promise, I was being sloppy because I was being so quick) its fixed! Also fixing a few of my more obvious boo-boos. Update 8/24
RevDorothyL has agreed to beta for me. So once again, here it is. Beta'd. Plus a new part! woo!
This will be a Buffy/Jack story. I am not going to pair anyone else off though.
The chapter length will pick up as things get moving. (I hope ;) )
Any and all feedback is completely welcome and appreciated.
It had been years since he had died.
Charlie had been dead now half as long as he had been alive. Colonel O’Neill rubbed a hand across his eyes. There weren’t tears. His pain all these years later, staring at his son’s tombstone, was too deep to even allow that relief. His other hand traced each letter of his son’s name, his finger pressing into where the granite was carved out. He had brought no flowers. He never really understood what a boy--dead or alive--would do with a bunch of wilting carnations. He could tell, however, that Sara had been there recently--within the last week, he guessed, since the yellow of the roses that lay to one side of their son’s grave hadn’t wilted beyond recognition. He also saw her loopy scrawl on an envelope. Charlie’s birthday would have been last week.
He would have been driving by now, having girlfriends. It was hard to imagine that. Charlie hadn’t even had a chance to find out what fun girls could be. Jack smirked to himself. If the kid had been anything like his old man... He almost chuckled, and then sighed. Charlie had been a lot like him, but he had more of his mother’s sweet nature to temper the caustic humor the Colonel was so famous for.
Jack made himself at home for the night, moving into a sitting position at the foot of his son’s grave, the way he had many nights. It was an eerie reenactment of what he had done when Charlie was younger, demanding bedtime stories: a dad sitting at the foot of the bed rereading “The Cat and In the Hat Comes Back!” for the umpteenth time. Jack still had that Dr’s works memorized, and Daniel thought he was uncultured.
Pulling a worn copy of the blue book from his waistband he began to read, the images keeping him company--though the words barely focused for him in the dim light of the graveyard.
“This was no time for play. This was no time for fun. This was no time for games. There was work to be done.”