Amazing, sometimes, what you find when you least expect it.
He’d opened the desk drawer, looking for something, some ordinary everyday thing, the need for which had fled his mind when his fingers, reaching deep into the back of the old desk drawer, closed around the familiar shape.
He didn’t need to bring it out and look at it, at the dulled, tarnished silver.
His hand knew that shape, knew the feel of it, intimately.
Tiny thing.
The pain was shattering.
His blood went cold.
The air in his lungs suddenly held no oxygen.
His heart couldn’t pump.
His knees went wobbly and he blindly reached out and pulled the desk chair close enough to sit on it before he fell to the floor.
His hand lay on the desk in front of him, his long fingers curled around the small bit of metal.
He hadn’t thought about it for a long time.
Hadn’t let himself think about it.
Forced it to the back of his mind, so he could carry on and act like life went on.
And then something, some innocent, ordinary thing, brought it all crashing back down.
He wasn’t over what had happened. He’d never be over it. If he lived to be a hundred, he knew there would still be moments like this. Funny, he didn’t know anybody who prayed they’d get Alzheimer’s. Like he did.
*****
He’d held the object in his fist so long his white, bloodless fingers began to cramp. Finally, of their own accord, the digits unfolded, and revealed what lay on his palm.
Tiny little thing.
Once it had meant so much to him.
Once it had been a shining symbol of his accomplishments, of the good things life could hold, a promise of his bright future. He’d been so filled with pride when he’d won this token of accomplishment.
And now it meant nothing.
Worse than nothing.
It meant grief, guilt, anger, loss, despair.
The black gulf loomed up in front of him, ready to crush him like a tidal wave of despair.
Jack closed his eyes, and in his mind’s eye saw a baby’s tiny hand, grabbing at the shining silver object.
Charlie had loved Jack’s pilot's wings.
They dazzled the boy. It had seemed like from the first moment Charlie had been capable of focusing his eyes, he’d tried to latch onto the bright silver bauble, craved it. Every time Jack wore them, on his dress uniforms or his coveralls, Charlie’s gaze had fastened on them. His small pudgy baby hand reached for them, tugging. As he grew to be a toddler, he learned the word ‘Daddy.’ And right after it, Sara had told him, he’d started calling them ‘ings.’
Daddy’s wings.
Charlie had wanted to fly, had dreamed of flying, talked incessantly about flying. Just one more dream gone forever unfulfilled, Jack thought bitterly.
*****
The boy had only been four when Jack left to go to war. Charlie had been inconsolable on that day. How he understood, Jack never had figured out. He supposed even a child that small was able to sense the tension in the air, his mother’s fears, his father’s reluctance.
Departures had always been difficult. That one had been nearly impossible.
Sara had driven them to the base. Both of them had been grim and silent. She knew as well as he did that war was coming, and that meant her husband wouldn’t be coming home for a long time, much longer, it turned out, than any of them could have foreseen.
Charlie had sensed their mood, and clung to Jack, crying.
Jack remembered he’d wanted to cry, too, some sense of terrible foreboding overtaking them all, as the boy wailed in his father’s arms.
Finally, it had been the only way Jack could go. He’d handed the squirming child back to Sara. Carefully, he’d unpinned the silver pilot’s wings from the breast of his jumpsuit, and bent down to the boy who was standing now, hiding his head against the pant leg of his mother’s blue jeans, sobbing inconsolably.
"Charlie?" the boy had refused to look at his father. "Charlie, you know Daddy has to go."
"I don’t want you to go," the child wailed.
Jack reached out and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, turning the boy so he could look directly into the small, tear-stained face. Gently, he wiped the tears away. "You know it’s my job."
"Daddy, please!"
Fighting to keep the tremble out of his own voice, Jack stood firm. "Son, I have to go. I know you’ll take care of Mommy for me. And I need you to take care of something else." He’d opened his hand, and the sunlight had glinted off the polished metal. With trembling hands Jack had carefully pinned the wings on Charlie’s shirt. "Take care of them until I come back. Promise me."
Charlie had looked from his father’s face, down to the wings, and then back at his father. Taking a deep breath, suppressing his sniffles, "Yes, Daddy," he answered, and saluted.
Jack had saluted back. Before his resolve deserted him, he’d given Sara a final quick hug and a kiss, tousled the boy’s hair, and hurried toward the waiting plane, and the fate that had awaited him.
*****
When he came home, all those months later, he’d let Charlie keep the wings. He’d had a spare pair, which he’d worn on formal occasions.
Until Charlie died.
He’d buried his heart and his soul, with Charlie.
And his wings.
He’d never worn wings since, never had, never would, not even on pain of death, which couldn’t compare to the pain of loss.
He knew people wondered, a pilot who abandoned his wings was all but unheard of, but no one had ever had the courage to ask. And there’d never been a reason to tell.
Angel’s wings.
That’s what they were now, and forever.
Author's note: This little fic grew out of a discussion on the Jackfic List. Why Jack doesn’t wear pilot’s wings. This is my interpretation.
© February, 2003 The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.