Disclaimer: They're not mine, the story is.
A/N: It's not finished yet.
Fifteen years ago the Stargate went public. Two months previously actions by a journalist embedded on a mission caused the death of Samantha Carter. Heartbroken, her CO Colonel Jack O'Neill retired and disappeared. When the story broke he was nowhere to be found. He removed himself completely from his old life, taking up a teaching post in a remote South Dakota high school to pay his way through life. And so hie lived on an empty existence, during the day he taught and kept up the charade. During the night he sat and regretted his actions untaken, the words unsaid and the feelings denied. There were only two things in life that Jack O'Neill felt guilty about: the death of his son, Charlie and not telling Sam how he really felt about her. Charlie and Sam. The regret he would carry with him to his grave.
Sighing defeatedly he looked at the clock once more and decided there was no point trying to get back to sleep. He could probably turn up to school in an hour or two. It should be open by then, he thought. Slowly he dragged himself out of bed and along to the kitchen where he put on some coffee. While he waited he went back to his bedroom and pulled on a worn pair of cargo pants bought a few years ago from and ex-army store, and his sneakers. Ys, unbelievably he did have sneakers. He tried to imagine the look on Daniel's face had he ever seen him like this and laughed inwardly.
By the time Jack was ready to leave the coffee was ready and he sat down and had a slurp to wake him up a bit before he loosed himself on the poor drivers of South Dakota. He liked going running in the mornings. Apart from keeping himself in shape he still liked to see the looks on the drivers faces. It wasn't everyday you saw a sixty-eight year old man putting himself through a grueling five mile run. Well, it was for some, many of whom were his own students. It perpetuated the myth that he was some war-ravaged ex-army guy who, if you valued your life, it was better to leave the hell alone. He certainly didn't do anything to dispel it. It left him in peace to contemplate his mistakes and generally torture himself.
Waving to Mr Hopkins sitting on his porch across the street, Jack left his house and after a quiet run, waved again as he got back. Jack showered, dressed and got ready for work. A blue shirt that somehow looked smarter on him without the tie, smartly pressed suit trousers and well polished shoes. He ate a bowl of fruit loops before he left his house once more. He got into his truck and pulled up outside Mr Hopkins' who immediately appeared and got in up front beside Jack.
"Steve."
"Jon."
And that was it. Apart from when he was teaching, Steven Hopkins didn't think he'd heard his neighbor speak two words. Like Steve, Jack was in the English department. Ironic then, that even though the most he ever spoke was in his classroom; even then he hardly spoke more than a few sentences in an hour. And he still somehow managed to get his students the best grades in the school.
"How's Jane?"
"Oh, you know. Good. Baby was moving around a lot last night. I think it's getting close. Says she'll page me if anything- you wouldn't mind give me a ride to the hospital would you?"
"Sure."
"Thanks."
At that point the conversation stopped 'til they got to work. Jonathon Carter was always first to work and last to leave, often well after the principal. Jane would have liked her husband to drive himself so that he could spend more time at home. As it was, Steve usually was the one to ask Jon to drive him home. Steve was the closest thing, as far as he could see, that his neighbor had to either family or friend and he took it upon himself to do the best he could to take care of him: getting up early to wave to him as he left and got back from his morning run; riding with him to work even though Steve could easily drive himself and would have liked, in his own dream world, to leave later and get back earlier. Still, he wasn't complaining. He actually quite liked their rides together. Sometimes Steve caught a glimpse of some other man his secretive neighbor, the man Steve guessed Jon used to be. Plus, if the truth be told, Steve was a bit of a wimp whereas Jon was frighteningly fit and strong, especially for his age. If any of the school's more unruly students ever decide to have a go at him, as the used to when he was still a new young teacher, it was a lot less likely to happen if he walked in with someone as revered as Jonathon Carter. And to prove his point, it never had. Hon looked over at his neighbor and sighed as he compared the man's sharply cut, silvery white hair, his lean frame and lack of baldness with his own needing-cut-and-starting-to-fall-out-anyway hair and the belly that was starting to show.
"What?"
"I just wish I could age as well as you, Jon. How come you never found a lady friend to keep you company all these years?" The man's face was expressionless. Steve guessed he'd got a lot of practice at that look.
"I did once." Jack said. Then more quietly, as if talking to someone else, "I could have had anyway. Should have." Jack pulled his truck into the school parking lot.
"We're here." He announced unnecessarily a as he did every morning, only this time it gave him the opportunity to change the subject onto something less personal.
"Thanks for the ride." Steve replied.
"No problem." Jack mumbled, used to the routine.
A few hours later, Jack's third class filed into his classroom and silently sat down. The students were equally curious and fearful about their enigmatic teacher and for some reason it was generally considered a bad idea to chat casually in his classroom. The man just had this aura about him…
"Mac, page 32" Jack said, turning round from the window he was staring out. His lessons were always like that, starting as if they had never stopped in the first place. As Michael McKinley opened his book to the correct place the door opened. The inspectors, Jack realized. How could he have forgotten? Jack nodded to the man in his sharp suit then caught the eye of Melissa, a bright but reluctant student, sitting at the back of the class. Without protest she got up and shifted herself to the spare seat at the front. Marveling at the man's control of the class, the inspector accepted the book handed to him by the teacher, Mr Carter, he remembered, and sat down at the back of the class. 'Heart of Darkness' he mused. 'Interesting'.
"Mac, 32." Jack repeated.
" 'It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream – making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream – sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams…'
He was silent for a while.
'No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence, - that which makes its truth, its meaning – it's subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live as we dream – alone…' "
"Thankyou, Mac. Peters, sort the desks." The inspector looked on in bewilderment as all the desks were shifted to the edge of the room and all the students arranged themselves in a casual circle in the centre of the classroom with Mr Carter at the top of the room near his desk and himself at the back, feeling completely out of place. He noted with interest that Jonathon Carter sat in one of the student chairs, as if he was one of them.
" 'We live as we dream – alone…' Is Conrad right?" And so for the next hour the students took part in a lively debate arguing over page 32, the book in general, its message, whether Conrad was right, whether therefore it was still relevant and back to page thirty-two. Five minutes before the end the desks were moved back and once again everyone sat in silence. For the whole debate Jack had avoided saying anything, instead listening to the students and marveling at their insight into the novel. Since it was nearly the end, the inspector started to get up but stopped when one student, who had been particularly quiet during the lesson raised his hand.
"Robertson?"
"What do you think, sir?" Jack inwardly admitted to being completely taken aback by the question but didn't let any of it show on his face. The whole room watched captivated as he got up and paced across the classroom and back before stopping beside the student's front row desk and looking directly at him. They locked eyes and for a few brief seconds, the boy thought he saw into his teacher's soul before Mr Carter looked away, his eyes guarded once more.
"I think you know what I think. Now that you've discussed it I want you to write me an essay. Five hundred words for Thursday. Is Conrad right?" The bell went and they all exited the classroom, the inspector with them.
Lunch, the principal's office, where the principal and her depute are sitting eating lunch.
"Where else have they been?"
"Hmm? Oh…um, Hank Williams in Chemistry, Zara's Spanish room-" the principal was nodding along to the list and put another mouthful of chicken salad sandwich into his mouth.
"…And Jonathon Carter's English class." For less than a second he stopped chewing, then continued on as if nothing had happened.
"Oh."
"I thought you might say that."
Principal Wallace, I've talked to my colleagues and overall we're very impressed with the school. Nevertheless there are certain things I am rather concerned about. First of all, basic health and safety in science classes – you have to make sure all of the students wear goggles. We can't afford a law suit here. Secondly, I'm rather concerned about the availability of so-called 'soft' drugs such as cannabis. The parents don't like it and we can't be seen to be ignoring the problem. Finally, a particular English teacher who caught my eye – Jonathon Carter?"
"I thought this might come up."
"For starters, isn't he past retirement age?"
"He's more of a permanent stand-in. Look, I know he sometimes uses some rather unorthadox teaching methods but his classes get SATs on average a full point higher than their peers. No one can quite work out how, but that has to count for something."
"We realize that you consider him to be a valuable asset to school but the new board of governors feels that his methods, and his manner, don't really fit in with the ethos they're trying to create."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm sorry. He has to go."
"I'm sorry, Jon, it's not my decision. I've talked to some of your colleagues and the board and if you want we'll still refer students to you as a recommended tutor. There are al lot of kids who could still benefit from your help, Jon. Think about it." Blunt as always, Jack went straight to the point.
"When do I leave?"
"End of the week."
As he tidied up after his final class – freshmen apparently without any idea of the wonders of Shakespere – he saw a shadow pass over the doorway and could tell immediately who it was.
"Robertson."
"Mr. Carter, sir."
"How's the new family going?"
"It's ok, sir. I'm waiting out til I can get my own place. Maybe work a few years, save some money to go to college."
"Scholorships?"
"Well sir, I was sort of wondering, I mean, I know you're very busy but I could really use some extra tuition."
"Sure."
"Really?" Jack looked the young man straight in the eye.
"You have potential Jim." It was the second time his teacher had looked him in the eye that day and it was honestly freaking him out.
"Thank you, Mr. Carter."
"Anytime."
"Jon, for what It's worth, I'm sorry." Steve said on the way home the next day. "Why don't you come over for dinner tonight. There's something Jane and I would like to discuss with you."
Jack accepted the invitation. After his last day at school he was feeling a bit down and could use the company. It was at times like this that he missed his old friends most, especially Sam. Of course he kept up with the papers, watched – with some amusement and a certain amount of relief – people refer to 'Jack O'Neill' or talk about him as if he was dead. Daniel and Teal'c seemed to be happy. With the Goa'uld now mostly defeated, it was mostly scientific stuff that Daniel got up to. Of courses there were certain other enemies on the horizon but none of them had proved to be too big a threat as yet. Not that he really cared all that much. After such a long time the bitterness and self-hatred within Jack had grown. He kept going now because there wasn't really any other option.
Now Jack found himself retired for the final time. With much more time on his hands, however, he still kept up the same daily routine: up early, five mile run, come out to wave Steve goodbye. In the early afternoon Jack often found himself napping and although part of him was annoyed at yet another indicator that Jack O'Neill, or even Jonathon Carter, was getting old, he enjoyed the restfulness of those times. After his nap, in the late afternoon, students would come for English tuition which brought in a welcome bit of extra cash. Having taught at a private boys school his salary had probably been much higher than the average teacher, despite being only part time. Still, his job loss had hit him harder than he'd anticipated. Not that he was poor by any means, just that most of his money was set aside for particular causes or difficult to access without his cover being blown.
Jack had, for a long time, considered English to be an artistic outlet, and while he enjoyed art and music, he was never much good at either of them. While he had always failed miserably at the sciences at school he had always enjoyed English and got consistently high grades, much to his father's relief. Every so often he'd contemplated writing his own work. Without any living descendants some neolithic part of him felt he had a duty to leave some sort of legacy, while his conscience felt he owed it to his fellow man to explain what had happened to the mythical figure of 'Jack O'Neill' and justify his actions. One particular morning, a few months after he'd retired, he woke up after a vivid dream and while he had forgotten most of it he remembered a poignant snippet of his past.
"Ever thing of writing a book yourself, Jack?"
"Yeah, but then I'd have to shoot anyone who actually read it."
After an extra long run that morning he still couldn't get it out of his mind and so he dug out a couple of pads of paper – stolen long time ago from an SGC supply closet, and sat down outside in the sun. With no particular idea what had possessed him he started writing an autobiography, right from the start. The very start. From then on he fell into the habit of writing in the mornings when no one was around to get curious about what he was up to. He usually fell asleep while writing it and then woke up about 2:30pm giving him time to clear up and visit Jane and the baby before his first student arrived.
Shortly after Jon's retirement, Steve had been delighted at the birth of his first child, a son. With no relatives for a couple of states Jack had been appointed surrogate grandfather, much to his own embarrassment. Steve knew his neighbor wasn't good with the whole emotion thing, at least when it came to discussing them, but he knew this didn't mean that Jon didn't feel anything. In fact Steve had a sneaking suspicion he channeled all his worldly frustrations into his fiction. Steve would have loved to read whatever it was Jon was supposedly writing. Jane had often witnessed him scribbling away in the mornings on his front porch but both husband and wife had chosen not to mention it to the gentleman since he seemed to think no one saw him.
In all honesty, Steve couldn't understand why Jon didn't have any children – he loved playing with Jonathan at least. Their neighbor had been more than embarrassed by the tribute but Steve and Jane were both adamant that it was sticking. To distinguish the two, Steve supposed, Jon had started calling Jonathon 'Jack' and Steve couldn't help himself – the name stuck. Of course this was partly because the kid burst into a fit of giggles whenever the new, abbreviated version of his name was said out loud. Since the baby's birth, Jon had often come over after lunch to help with his 'grandson' and although he'd never admit it to anyone, it was obvious from his demeanor that he loved it. Occasionally after his last student left Jon would wander over on Jane's invitation for a home cooked meal, a friendly chat and an update as to the state of the new state of the now frighteningly conservative school. Much to Jack's amusement, Steve took to quoting lines from 'Dead Poet's Society' but feigning lethargy Jack would often retire back to his own home early. In truth, the love between his neighbors and their beautiful family arrangement often left him feeling melancholic when he saw them all together and it was nights like this that he returned not to sleep but to write the darkest and most secret sections of his life's story.
His early years, Charlie's short-lived childhood, the happier Stargate times and his later years were written about in his chair in the mornings; but his black ops years, the years after Charlie's death, the aftermath of Sam's death, the parts of his history that defined who he was and who he had become, the revelations of what he really felt in the depth of his soul during the events he lived through and the guilt and sorrow that would haunt his soul forevermore could only be written in the darkest hours of the night. The time when it seemed the sun would never rise again, those few hours of the night where the monsters under the beds of babes crept out to reek havoc on the world. Only the darkness was witness as the doorway to his soul opened and his darkened, cloudy heart was, for a short time, set free. As the reasons for his regret were remembered and the memories surfaced, the emotional core of him burst forth and more than once he, the hardened soldier, the black ops trained assassin and the silent survivor of unimaginable torture at the hands of his enemies, both on and offworld, cried himself to sleep.
Ten years later, and Jack's story had been finished. It was fall when he finally laid down his pen and his surrogate grandson had long ago started school. Both loved the other to bits, but with his text complete his reason for persevering through old age, had dissipated. The world's grip on Jack began to loosen and only a week after he laid down his pen, with his affairs finally in order, Young Jack rushed home from school one afternoon to find his grandfather wouldn't wake up from his chair. He'd suffered a massive heart attack in his sleep. The autopsy however, left doctors mystified – there was nothing physically wrong with him to explain the cause of death.
The Saturday following Jonathon Carter's death Steve went over to try and sort out the house. After a boring morning picking through and cataloguing most of the less personal objects in the house, Steve noticed for the first time a picture frame sitting face down on the coffee table in the living room. It was directly in front of the seat Jon had been sitting in when he'd passed away. Curious, he picked it up and turned it over.