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Grandfather's visit

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This story is No. 7 in the series "Waifs and strays". You may wish to read the series introduction and the preceeding stories first.

Summary: Jack O'Neill is visited by his maternal grandfather who invites him to take a journey with him...

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Stargate > Non-BtVS/AtS Stories(Current Donor)vidiconFR711,0523114,58126 Jun 1126 Jun 11Yes
Author’s note:

 

This story is set in the period between Stargate (the movie, or at least what passes for the first voyage through the gate in the Series verse) and Children of the Gods.  I do not own Stargate or any of its spin offs.

 

 

Grandfather’s Visit

 

Jack O’Neill was drinking. The choice of drink was beer; the quantity was ‘plenty’, or preferably, ‘too much.’ The room showed this, the curtains were drawn and beer bottles were litteres around it, mixed with the heavier liquor he used when he wanted to get drunk more quickly. He slurped at his bottle and saluted the picture and the gun on the mantle. “Here’s to you Charlie!”

 

He was drinking to forget, and he was intending to forget all on his own. Problem was he wasn’t forgetting…he had another son somewhere now…way, way out there in the universe…and he’d never see him again. Which made him just a little bit more lonely and lost than he already was. It was good to be lonely. When night fell he’d climb up to his telescope and look for Skaraa and Daniel…yeah…Look fort them in the night sky. But he needed more beer to look properly…and more loneliness to appreciate the beauty of the stars.

 

So he was more than a little annoyed when the doorbell rang. He grumbled and did not rise from his comfortable position on the couch, slouching down and sipping beer from the bottle in his hand. It was probably a salesman.

 

The doorbell rang again. Jack took another sip, ignoring the noise. The doorbell rang again and again the retired colonel ignored it. That was when the banging started. And then the shouting.

 

“JACK! I know you’re in there! Open up before I have to pick the lock!”

 

Jack blinked owlishly at his beer. The plummy  upper class English accent was instantly recognizable. But he couldn’t be here…he was safely ensconced in a retirement home in Florida…and he was over a hundred years old for heaven’s sake…

 

There was a click, the door opened and then a whir of something electrical…Jack looked stupefied as the old man drove into his living room in his electric wheelchair, his lock picks lying on the small table attached to it.

 

Jack unsteadily rose and faced him.

 

“Granddad?”

 

“Amazing deduction Jack…” The old man glared at him and then he struck the half empty beer bottle out of his hand with the silver headed cane in his hand.

 

“Go take a shower…you stink.”

 

“Granddad?”

 

“Jack…shower…now. Make it a cold one, and sober up.”

 

“Granddad? You’re supposed to be in Florida?”

 

“And you’re supposed to be sober. It’s not even two…shower Jack, then talk.” The old man drove his wheelchair forward and pushed jack with the cane, herding him to the bathroom. Jack, shaking his head in disbelief, did as he was told.

 

STMSTMSTMSTMSTMSTMSTMSTMSTMSTM

 

Jack came back to the living room with his hair still wet, wearing a pair of jeans that didn’t smell too bad and a clean t-shirt found way back in the closet with a picture of Tweetie bird on it. He hated Tweetie. It had been Sara’s idea of a joke.

 

The curtains were open. Granddad had taken his gun from the mantle and eyed Jack thoughtfully as he was rounding up the last bottles with the small grappler he’d had made a few years ago when he found out he couldn’t walk very far or bend over very well anymore.

 

“Well…I see you’ve inherited something from me besides my sense of humour…Drinking to excess.”

 

“Yeah…well I’ve got reason.”

 

“No doubt…you’re also a lot younger than I am and you still have a good future ahead of you…Jack…I miss the boy too…not in the way you do…but I miss him. But you can’t destroy yourself because of a stupid accident.”

 

“I should have kept it locked up…Unloaded…”

 

“And Charlie shouldn’t have played with it…I heard you tell him often enough myself. I told you myself never to play with my guns when you were a child. You listened.”

 

“And that Bren was pretty sweet.”

 

“Still is.”

 

“You keep a gun in a retirement home?”

 

“I left the home…all the old people were driving me bonkers…”

 

Jack snorted. Last time he’d checked his grandfather had been the oldest person in the home by ten years. “And now?”

 

“I’ll go and travel the world again I think…Visit Britain first…I could do with a companion…”

 

“I’ve been to Britain.”

 

“I know…but you could do with the distraction. And I’m not as young as I was. It’d be good for you Jack…sitting here and remembering Charlie…it’s not going to help. Not if you only see him through the bottom of a bottle.”

 

“Granddad…It’s not just that…there are other things.”

 

“Memories of things done…dark things…yes I know.” The old man looked thoughtful. “I’ll make you a deal Jack…we’ll go to your cabin first…do some fishing…and then we go to Britain…I want to show you where the British side of the family came from…”

 

Jack looked doubtful. “You hate fishing…you told me that the only thing in the world you could think of that was worse than fishing was being eaten alive by scarabs…And I still don’t know how you came up with that one…”Jack shuddered.

 

“Jack…if you come with me to Britain…I’ll explain everything.”

 

Jack grinned. “Can I glide down the banisters at the manor? I’ve wanted to do that ever since you told me about the place.”

 

“I’m sure something can be arranged…”

 

“And you’ll tell me everything? The real story? Not just the stories you told me as a kid?”

 

“Jack…” The old man smiled and took a golden rod from under the blanket over his knees and pressed a stud. The rod extended into a golden spear. “I already did.”

 

As Jonathan O’Neill looked at the man he’d been named after in sheer astonishment he wondered exactly what he was getting himself into.

 

End Note: I do not own the Mummy or any of its sequels. Nor do I own the character of Jonathan Carnahan.

 

 

 

The End

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