I watch, and am become like a sparrow that is alone upon the house-top.
Psalms 102:7
"Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. The
fearful are caught as often as the bold." Helen Keller
*****
"So, what’s his name?"
"Who?"
Millie could almost hear Aunt Bertha’s lips hardening through the phone lines. "Don’t ‘who’ me, young lady. Him."
"Him who?" Mother’d always said her sister’s cornbread wasn’t all baked. Millie, who’d always defended her aunt, was now beginning to see the light at the back of the oven.
"You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?" It was more an accusation than a question.
"I am?"
"Mildred Elaine Guthro!"
Sitting at her kitchen table, the telephone cradled between her ear and her shoulder, Millie pulled the protective plastic wrap from the latest Mariah Carey CD - the one she’d deny that she’d ever listen to in a million years, let alone buy. Like Dirk Jenkins, her forty-something neighbor who still lived with his mommy and who still answered to the name of ‘Dirkie,’ the plastic wrap clung to her with a tenaciousness that bordered on the pathetic.
"Aunt Bertha, if you’re going to take my name in vain, could you at least get it right? It’s Millicent, not Mildred."
"Don’t get smart with me, young lady! Now, stop avoiding the question."
"Honest to God, I’ve forgotten what the question was." Frowning, Millie pulled the plastic wrap from her left hand; it stuck to her right.
"Don’t swear. The question was: what is the name of the young man with whom you are so besotted."
"I’m not ‘besotted’ with anyone." Not much. She tucked a corner of the plastic wrap under the leg of her jeans and pulled her hand free.
"How old is he?"
"Fifty-ish." Millie smirked at the soft gasp on the other end of the line, then frowned at the ensuing silence. "Aunt Bertha?"
"He’s old enough-"
"To be my older brother. An uncle maybe. But not my father, so don’t even say it."
"And his name?"
Millie stared at Mariah’s chubby-cheeked, smiling face. Some things were best enjoyed in private. "He’s in the Air Force."
"Good Lord! He’s a pilot?"
"Calm down. He doesn’t even know I exist. I mean, of course, he does but . . . he doesn’t."
"Are you pregnant?"
"What?"
"He’s not married, is he? Oh, please, Millicent, tell me he’s not married."
Millie set the CD on the table and walked to the sink, the plastic wrap softly crackling with every other step. She poured herself a glass of water she didn’t want and, still cradling the phone with her shoulder, stared out the small window that looked onto the neighboring apartment building. "You know . . . you’re right, Aunt Bertha. He’s married. He’s married and we’re screwing like bunnies. Every Tuesday and Friday. Like clockwork."
"I do not want to hear this."
"He’s the funniest, most handsome, most annoying man I’ve ever met. He has sexy grey hair, long legs, a lean, hard body, and the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen. It ought to be against the law."
"It just may be."
"And he pays me, Aunt Bertha. He pays me and the funny thing is, I’d probably do it for free."
In the lengthy silence that followed, Millie swallowed the water then, with an angry swipe, pulled the plastic wrap from her jeans and wiped it onto the side of the cool glass like a nasty booger. Like a nasty booger, it stuck there.
"You’re quite the little comedienne, aren’t you? Always have been." Aunt Bertha’s mood shifted through the earpiece, and Millie both appreciated and resented what she knew was coming. "Has this man hurt you?"
She smiled at the very thought. If Aunt Bertha only knew. "Jack would never hurt me."
"Jack, huh?"
Millie set the glass in the sink. "I need to go. I have a headache."
"Yes. Go rehearse your little comedy routine."
"Aunt Bertha . . ."
"I know, dear. I love you, too. Oh, and Millie . . ."
"Yeah?"
"A little aspirin."
"Aspirin?"
"Held between the knees makes the best . . ."
"Birth control. Yes, I know."
Laying the phone on the counter, Millie continued to stare out the window at the red brick wall that blocked any view she might have had of Pikes Peak or anything else that might have made a difference in her outlook. Chewing the inside of her lip, she turned on the faucet, oblivious to the sheet of plastic which curled slightly, reluctantly relinquished its hold, and then silently swirled down the drain, as uncelebrated and unnoticed as a mama’s boy named Dirkie.
*****
"Could you maybe not do that?"
Millie stopped in the midst of dusting and stared over at him. Jack was seated at the small, neat desk in the corner of the room that served as his office and family room. "Do what? Dust?"
"No." A long finger marking his place on the check register and the other hand poised above a calculator, he glanced at her. "That humming thing you’re doing."
Millie always hummed while she worked. She didn’t plan it that way; it just . . . happened. It was a habit that annoyed her as much as it apparently did everyone else, mainly because her mother had done the same thing and Millie hated to think that she did things merely because her mother and father had once upon a time, long, long ago, engaged in a sexual act. She was an independent person. She had enough problems without inheriting someone else’s crap. "I always hum."
With a look that made her toes curl - and not in a good way - Jack turned back to balancing his checkbook. "Yeah. Tell me about it."
Ass! Sticking out her tongue at the back of his head, Millie went back to work. She wiped dust from an eclectic selection of books ranging on subjects from astronomy to herb gardening to engineering, and she hummed . . . loudly.
It took less than a minute, and she smiled to herself at the soft grunt and the scrape of the chair legs on the hardwood floor.
Mess with her, would he?
*****
"Why are you so . . . difficult?"
Millie jumped, nearly dropping the casserole dish that she was putting in the oven. Glancing over her shoulder at Jack, who was leaning against the doorjamb with his hands shoved in the pockets of his baggy chinos, she went back to what she was doing. Centering the dish in the center of the rack, she closed the oven door, set the timer, and wiped her hands on a dish towel before turning to face him.
"I’m sorry, were you speaking to me?"
"Thus proving my point," he muttered.
Millie frowned and turned back towards the counter. "I’m not difficult. I’m . . .," she wiped off the counter and rinsed out the dishrag before finding the word she was looking for, "I’m complex."
"Ha! What fortune cookie did you pull that out of?"
Millie turned around and leaned back against the counter. Jack had crossed his arms as if he were planning on staying a while. "Actually, it’s ‘out of what fortune cookie did you pull that’."
Jack frowned and shook his head. "What’s your problem today?"
"Maybe I don’t have a problem. Maybe you’re the one with the problem, Mr. I Hate Anyone Who Hums."
"What?" Jack straightened and shook his head as if trying to clean out his ears. "My God, Brit, I think you’ve lost it. I really do. I haven’t seen anyone this irrational since my ex-wife went off on one of her monthly tangents." Jack suddenly stopped and blushed. "Oh. Uh-"
Millie felt like she’d been slapped in public. Better yet, maybe this was what it felt like to be kicked in the nuts. Slowly, she walked towards him. Maybe if she kicked him in the nuts, they could compare notes. As if reading her thoughts, Jack backed out of the doorway, making room for her to squeeze by. Millie stopped in front of him, so close she could feel the heat from his chest on her face.
"You know what you are, Jack?" she whispered.
He forced a smile and shrugged. "A sensitive kind of guy?"
Millie laughed softly and nodded. "No. You’re a bitch. A bona fide, class A bitch."
"But-"
"Aagh!" She held up a finger, silencing him. "If I were you, I’d carefully consider what’s getting ready to come out of your mouth. I can slip a deadly little something in your tuna casserole and plead the PMS defense before the toxin even hits your bloodstream."
Jack blanched and looked towards the oven.
"Exactly." Millie reached up towards Jack’s neck and he flinched. Smiling, she pulled a loose string off his t-shirt. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go try to get some weird brown stains out of your toilet."
*****
There was something cleansing about cleaning. Like the bleach she poured into the porcelain bowl, the act of cleaning seemed to take one of two routes: it would either remove all traces of her anger, or it would simply leave it there, burnished down to its purest form. Millie sat back on her heels, flushed the toilet, and watched as clear water swirled around the sides of the gleaming tank. She could only wish the direction of her anger was as apparent. Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing which swirling vortex it would take until she saw the signpost that looked deceptively like a tall, lean Air Force colonel.
Her nostrils assailed by the familiar, heady aroma of the chemical blend, she wiped an arm across her sweaty forehead. She opened the cabinet under the sink and grunting, stretched to shove the various bottles of cleaners in the back of the vanity behind the extra toilet paper and the . . . she frowned . . . the large box of super, heavy duty tampons.
Damn! She could have sworn she’d seen every episode of that unsolved mystery show - the one with Eliot Ness from ‘The Untouchables.’ So, how was it that she’d never seen the composite drawing of Jack on there? The man was as elusive as the mysterious Sasquatch, as deceptive as any world-renowned con artist, as wanted as any-
Millie blushed, despite being totally alone and kneeling at the foot of the throne where Jack O’Neill did unspeakable acts. She cleared her throat, forced down the warm rush of Harlequin-like throbbing in her veins, and prepared to meet the King of Flatulence. She smiled. That helped temper her raging hormones. Flatulence. Maybe she could bottle it, and sell it like smelling salts - Brown Cloud, The Pure Essence of Man.
Smiling, Millie followed the sound of Jack’s voice to the living room.
"Thirty-eight," she announced, before realizing that Daniel Jackson was sitting on the sofa across from Jack, who was perched on the edge of the armchair using an empty Diet Dr. Pepper can to demonstrate baseball physics.
Jack stopped mid-throw and looked at her.
"Uh," Daniel frowned and his mouth moved, but nothing else came out.
"Daniel, careful," Jack quietly warned, and he shook his head once, but never took his eyes off Millie.
She waited, but neither man moved or spoke. Chickenshits. "Did you hear me?"
Jack grimaced slightly and lowered the can, resting it on his knee. "Um," he swallowed, glanced at Daniel, and then looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Yes. Yes, we heard you."
"Um, Millie," Daniel lifted a hand, "I think-"
"Daniel!" Jack glared at his friend. "Can it!"
"But-"
Jack sliced a long finger across his own throat, effectively silencing the younger man. Concluding their brief, unspoken communication, the men turned simultaneously and looked at Millie.
"Well?" She took a step closer, stopping at the edge of the coffee table which already sported a wet, can-sized ring identical to the one she’d polished away not two hours previous.
Jack licked his lips and bounced the bottom edge of the can against his leg. "Well, what?"
"Thirty-eight. What does that bring to mind?"
Jack blushed and Daniel Jackson blinked. They traded a quick, almost instantaneous glance, then looked back at her.
When he finally spoke, Jack’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. "C?"
Millie frowned. "See? See what?"
"Nothing," he answered, too quickly.
"What? Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?"
Daniel frowned at his shoes. "No, but-"
Jack coughed . . . loudly.
"Geez. It’s a simple question." Millie sighed and put her hands on her hips. Jack flinched and squeezed the can, crushing it with a hollow, metallic crunch. "What do you think of when I say thirty-eight?"
"Mary Steenburgen?" Jack tried again.
Daniel choked back a laugh.
"What?" Men!
"What?" Jack dead-panned. "You asked what I thought of when you said thirty-eight."
"And you thought you saw Mary Steenburgen?" Yeah, obviously, Millie had missed a few episodes of ‘America’s Most Wanted,’ as well, particularly the one where the tall man had escaped from a local mental institution and was passing himself off as an officer in the military.
"Well," Jack shrugged, "no, but it seemed like the . . . safest answer." He started to wipe sweat from his forehead, then realized he was still holding the deformed can. He carefully balanced it on the coffee table, and then bounced both legs in a jerky, awkward rhythm that had to wreak havoc on his somewhat gimpy knees. "Millie, are you trying to, well, tell us something?"
D’uh. She forced a tight, unhappy smile. "Today’s my birthday."
"Really?" Daniel seemed to perk up and met her gaze at last.
"And you want us to . . ." Jack prodded.
"You. I want you-"
Jack shot out of his chair. "Me?"
"I want you to tell me what you think of when you think of someone who’s thirty-eight years old."
Jack chuckled, and dropped back onto his chair. "Oh, thank God."
Millie frowned at him.
He straightened his spine. "I mean, well, uh, what do I think of thirty-eight year olds? Hmm." Jack looked over at Daniel. "That’s about your age, isn’t it, Doctor Jackson?"
"Not quite," Daniel said, looking and sounding offended.
"Okay. But close." Jack glanced at Millie, then quickly looked back at Daniel. "Thirty-eight. Thirty-eight. I think . . . I think . . .," he squinted his eyes and looked at Millie. "Okay, I’ve got nothing."
"Exactly!" Millie gave him a genuine smile.
"What?"
"Nothing. Thirty-eight years old and I’ve nothing to show for it."
"Oh, I wouldn’t say that exactly," Daniel mumbled.
Putting her hands on her hips again, Millie leaned towards him. "Well, look at you."
"What?" Daniel looked down at his lap, then sighed. "Oh, crap. You scared me."
"I mean," Millie reached down and swiped at the wet ring on the table, "you’re younger than me, and you’re a doctor and you speak a bunch of languages or something, and you do important stuff. Am I right?"
"Well," Jack smiled over at Daniel, "I wouldn’t call it important exactly. More like boring."
"Okay. Then, what about you?" Millie pointed at Jack.
"What about me?" Jack grimaced.
"You’re a Colonel in the Air Force."
"And I’m old enough to be your-"
"Uncle." Millie frowned at Jack. "So, do you see?"
"Well, actually," Jack blinked, "yes."
"Jack, I thought you said not to-"
"Shut up, Daniel. Millie," a distasteful look on his face, Jack stood up and approached her, his eyes focused on some vague point over her left shoulder, "come with me."
"What? Why?"
He grabbed her shoulders, forcibly turned her around, and shoved her towards the step leading to the kitchen or, if there really was a fairy godmother, the bedrooms.
"Let’s take this to the kitchen, shall we?"
Okay, well, there was always Santa.
Millie preceded Jack into the kitchen, taking a moment to glance through the window in the oven door at the bubbling casserole before turning back to face the man who would be King of Flatulence.
"Okay, Brit, I have just two words of advice for you. You ready? ‘Cause, I gotta tell you, this is pretty heady stuff and I don’t plan on repeating any of it."
Millie leaned back, resting her elbows on the counter. Jack blushed and appeared to undergo an inner struggle with something that Millie could only guess at. "This ought to be good, coming from Mr. Sensitive Guy."
"Just . . .," he made a shooing motion with his hand, "never mind. Anyway, point one: You’re feeling sorry for yourself. You know that, right?"
Millie shrugged.
"Well, stop it. It’s . . . it’s unbecoming."
"Unbecoming?" God, had he been talking to Aunt Bertha? Next thing you know, he’d be spouting off about how it wasn’t seemly that she was besotted with him, her boss, her . . . elder.
"Yeah. You know, it’s . . . well, it makes you look bad."
"Well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?"
He cocked his head. "No. We wouldn’t. Besides, it’s stupid and it’s a waste of time."
"So, now I’m stupid and I hum?"
Jack growled, "And complex. Don’t forget complex."
"I’m thirty-eight and I don’t even know what I want to be when I grow up. How complex is that, I ask you."
He roughly scrubbed a hand through his already messy hair, bit his lip as he seemed to think about what he wanted to say, and then took a deep breath. "Brit, do you want to know what I was doing when I turned thirty-eight?"
"Okay, I’ll bite. What were you doing when you turned thirty-eight, Jack?"
"I was getting ready to bury my ten-year old kid."
Oh, God. Millie stood up straight. She’d been wrong: This was what it felt like to be slapped in public. This was what it felt like to be kicked in the nuts. And she was the bitch here, not Jack. "Oh, geez. Damn, Jack, I’m . . . I’m so-"
He held up a hand. "Stop. Please, don’t . . . just don’t do that. That’s not why I told you, okay? So, whatever you do, don’t tell me you’re sorry."
She nodded dumbly.
"My point is, I don’t know anybody who’s where they thought they would be when they’re, well, whatever age they are. I mean, Daniel watched his parents get killed when he was eight years old, spent years tangled up in the foster care system because he had a granddad who was too busy to take care of his own grandson, and now he’s lost his wife. And Carter? Hell, she’s gone through so many fiancés and boyfriends that if any more croak, you’re going to be seeing her face on the evening news. I won’t even delve into the mysterious life of Murray. And me? I bury my son and let my marriage fall apart. For crying out loud, who asks for that? And the kicker is, not a damned one of us is getting any younger. Am I making any sense here, Brit?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"So you’re thirty-eight, so what? Who gives a shit? This is a life-changing event, how?"
Millie shrugged again, and bit her lip so she wouldn’t tell him how sorry she was - not just for acting like a spoiled brat, but because the pictures scattered around his house had just taken on a poignancy she’d never have imagined. Instead, she forced a timid smile. "I still got my health. There’s that."
Jack stared at her, stunned, then he smiled. "Yeah. That’s always a good thing. At least you’re not piddling yourself or anything. I mean . . . you’re not yet, right?"
"Nope."
"Which kinda brings me to my second point."
"Oh, yeah. Your second point."
Jack blushed again and pointed at her. "You might want to consider . . . well, not doing that."
"What?"
"I mean, I take it as a compliment, I really do, but I think you’re giving Daniel the wrong idea."
"What?" Millie looked down at herself.
Oh, shit! Holy freakin’ Toledo! Okay. Okay, now she could just die. Just crawl off somewhere into a deep, deep hole and die. But slowly . . . not until she’d had a chance to sit down and review in minute detail the entire scene in the living room. Not until she’d had a chance to replay everything she’d said and everything they’d said, and watch in slow motion as every word and look and blush took on a whole new, horrid, perverted, and entirely crappy connotation.
Unable to move, Millie stared down at her breasts, which were almost barely still stuffed inside her newest, peek-a-boo pink, wonder-of-wonders-it-did-give-me-cleavage bra, which was almost barely still stuffed inside her shirt. While the former garment was obviously delivering as promised, sadly, the latter had managed - probably at some point during her sojourn in the throne room - to slip approximately four buttons.
Jack laughed, softly.
It took everything she had to look up at him, and when she did, he had a big, stupid grin on his face that immediately brought hot tears of embarrassment to her eyes. And she didn’t cry, dammit! Millicent Elaine Guthro did not cry! And she especially didn’t cry in front of Jack O’Neill!
"Oh, shit." Jack stopped laughing and was across the kitchen quicker than Millie thought a guy his age could move. "Oh, damn, Millie, don’t cry." And then those long arms were wrapped around her, and her face was being pressed into his t-shirt, which smelled partly like Tide and partly like those dryer sheets that she shoved in all his dresser drawers.
"I’m not crying," she cried against his firm chest.
"Sshh." Jack’s grip on her tightened, and a hand draped itself across the back of her head and began softly stroking her hair like she was his favorite pet. "I’m sorry. We should have said something, but we just . . . please, please don’t cry."
His arms felt good. His chest was just like she’d imagined - hard and muscled. Even his words were nice. Tentatively, she let her hands rest on his waist, one on each side. He was thin, but softer there than she’d imagined, and when he spoke, his breath made her scalp tickle. She allowed herself a moment. It was, after all, her birthday. She counted to thirty-eight, slowly, before pushing away from him and staring up at his face.
"I can’t believe I flashed you."
One arm still around her, Jack reached up and wiped her wet cheeks with his fingers. "It was no big deal."
"Geez! How can you say that?"
"What?"
"I flash you my boobs, and you say it’s no big deal? How insulting!"
"Okay, okay." He pulled away from her. "Just . . . just keep your shirt on, Brit. That’s not what I meant."
"Keep my shirt on? That’s not funny, Jack."
He grinned. "It’s kinda funny."
Millie looked down, then began to slowly button her shirt. What was the hurry? He could probably pick them out of a titty line-up anyway. Thank goodness she hadn’t done laundry last night, and she’d been forced to wear her good bra instead of the old, dingy-white, stretched-out one. "All right. It was kinda funny."
Jack chuckled, and patted her on the arm. "How about, once you’re decent, Daniel and I take you out for a birthday dinner? We’ll save the casserole for later."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. That’d be nice, Jack."
Still smiling, Jack studied her a moment, then shook his head, and left the room. Millie finished buttoning up, turned off the oven, and set the casserole on the stove top. As she made her way to the living room, she smiled as she overheard Jack telling Daniel that naked people who hummed always gave him a headache.
Well, she didn’t know about the ‘always’ part, but at least she was able to give Jack something. After all, he’d just managed to give her a birthday she’d never forget.
<finis>
Author’s Note: Robert Stone said, "Life is a means of extracting fiction." I’m not sure if this is true, but it certainly makes me feel better when something dreadful, something horridly wrong happens. It allows me to step back, to objectively look at the situation, and then to quite sanely say, "Oh, this didn’t happen to me at all. It happened to Millie." So, thank you, Millie, for extracting all the crap from my life and turning it into a Jack moment.
© January 2005 Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.