I watch, and am become like a sparrow that is alone upon the
house-top. Psalms 102:7
Things ain’t what they used to be and probably never was. Will
Rogers
*****
Millie Guthro was pretty sure she wasn’t normal. She had an irrational fear of biscuit tins and toenail clippings, she hated Christmas, and despite being closer to forty than she cared to admit, she was still waiting to grow out of her awkward stage. Her greatest fear was that she’d ‘find herself’ when it was too late. She’d have an epiphany at the moment of her demise. Hold everything! I know I’m seventy-five, but I was supposed to have married a truck driver named Carl from Cincinnati, and have half a dozen bratty kids! Aunt Bertha kept reassuring her that Saint Peter held the books to a person’s true heart. Millie supposed it said something about her character that she found no consolation in that. In fact, she was really kind of counting on the guy’s scruples being less than pristine. If he could be bribed, she might stand a chance of getting in.
Well, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?
Speaking of which, she’d been dreaming of him a lot. Five nights running now. And, while she supposed it might be sinful - what with having sprung from a deep-seated, extremely carnal lust - she was actually a little relieved. Having sex-ridden dreams about the man who was her boss had to be the most normal thing about her. After all, Jack O’Neill was a definite hottie.
She tried not to think about the fact that in her last dream, Jack had knelt - fully-clothed in his dress blues - between her knees and had laughingly declared, ‘Well, now that I’ve suddenly lost the urge to do anything even remotely naughty, how about we do something fun instead.’ Before she could find out what Dream Jack considered ‘fun,’ or what had driven him to her knees to begin with, she’d been awakened by the raucous pealing of her alarm clock.
Rolling over with a frustrated sigh, Millie slapped the damned clock into silence, and cursed the dreary futility of a nearly-forty woman awakening alone and with no prospects darkening the sheets next to her.
Not counting her dreams, the last real date she’d had had been months ago - a guy named Dwayne whom she’d met at the library. Despite the fact that Dwayne was an investment banker in his mid-forties, it turns out what he really wanted to be when he grew up was an archeologist. No problem. No, what had bothered her was the fact that he’d turned up for their first date wearing a t-shirt which proclaimed ‘I Do It On My Knees In The Dirt,’ and that he’d presented her with a matching shirt which simply stated ‘I’m With Bone Boy.’ It was kind of a turn-off, even for someone as horny as she was, and if she’d hadn’t experienced it firsthand, she’d never have believed that a guy who drove a 1965 Cobra could be such a loser. Hell, Bobby Slater, the pimply boy she’d dated in high school, had been a better catch than Dwayne the Bone Head.
Millie stared up at the ceiling. If it weren’t for the fact that it would seem a little like giving up, she might just buy a cat.
* * * * *
Well, would wonders never cease - apparently, Jack’d had the team over sometime during the weekend because when Millie opened the refrigerator to begin making her infamous ‘Leftover Stew,’ the eight-legged eating machine had emptied the refrigerator. Again. Too bad the Beast never cleaned it.
She looked into the garage where Jack was sitting on a crate tinkering with the lawnmower. He was wearing a pair of scuffed cowboy boots, faded jeans, and a t-shirt that had been white when she’d folded it, sniffed it, and shoved it in his drawer last week.
"Hey, I need grocery money if you want to eat any time soon."
"Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. Murray was hungry."
"Murray comes with his own zip code. He’s entitled. So," she leaned against the door frame, "if you’ll give me some money, I’ll make a run to the store."
Jack grimaced, fiddled with something on the side of the engine, then picked up a greasy rag and began wiping his hands. "Maybe I’ll go with you. I need to stop by the hardware anyway and pick up a wrench."
Millie smiled. Even with plugged sinuses, she could smell this rat a garage-width away. "Shall we take your truck?"
Jack frowned, deep in thought. "Actually, I . . . I think you’re blocking me, so why don’t we just take your car."
"I could move it."
"Naw," Jack stood, walking towards her while managing to not look directly at her, "you could probably use some gas, and it’s only fair that since we’re taking your car, I pay for filling up the tank."
Right. Uh-huh.
"Besides, that way I can drop you off at the grocery, fill up the tank, and stop by the hardware before swinging back by to pick you up."
"Which can’t possibly be done with a pick-up truck," she muttered.
"What?"
Millie smiled and reached in her pocket for the keys to the Nomad. "Since you’re dropping me off, you might as well drive."
"Yeah, that makes sense," Jack grinned.
* * * * *
He was wearing dark sunglasses, and a black leather jacket. A black leather jacket!
"What?"
Caught staring at him, Millie shrugged and nodded in his direction. "Is that new?"
Jack glanced down at the jacket then redirected his attention to the traffic, a quirky smile on his face. "Yes and no. I bought it at a flea market."
"Really?"
"What? You don’t believe me?"
"No. It’s just . . . you don’t strike me as the ‘flea market’ type."
"Yes, well, I know I’m rather GQ, but I have my moments." There was a pause then he added, "I was on a road trip. I was broke and desperate."
"I like it."
He glanced over at her. "Really?"
"Yeah. I have pictures of my dad wearing one a lot like it back in, gosh, I guess the mid-sixties or so."
"Wow. The sixties, huh? That takes me back," Jack sighed.
"Sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll. What’s not to like?"
"Oh, I don’t know, how about venereal disease, flashbacks, and overdoses. To say nothing of war, and civil unrest." Jack pulled the Nomad into the parking lot of the Rocky Top Pit Stop, and eased up in front of the entrance.
"Well, you look like the Fonz."
"Okay," Jack shook his head in disgust and removed his sunglasses, "let’s get something straight. I look nothing like the Fonz. For one thing, he was nearly as short as you. For another-"
"Don’t freak out, dude," Millie chuckled. "I just meant that it makes you look like a bad boy. You know, in a good sort of way."
"Dude? You’re calling me ‘dude’?" Jack slid his glasses back in place then did a doubletake. "What do you mean, ‘in a good sort of way’?"
"You know." Millie shrugged. No way was she telling him he looked lickable . . . uh, kissable. She meant, kissable. Geesh, that was funny. Lickable? Where’d that come from? Who’d want to lick Jack? Well . . . never mind. Don’t answer that.
"Yes, well, it’s been a real gas, Skirt. Here’s some bread for the . . . bread. I shouldn’t be gone more than twenty, thirty minutes."
Taking the money from Jack, Millie smiled. "Don’t lay rubber on my account."
"Okay, okay. Let’s put the kibosh on the sixties talk, if you don’t mind. I’ve had enough to last me a while."
As Jack pulled away from the curb, Millie grabbed a large shopping cart, and reviewed her mental grocery list. Jack had said he planned on being in town for a few weeks, so she stocked up on fresh fruit and veggies. He swore he didn’t eat the stuff, but it always seemed to disappear when she bought it. Dish soap, bath soap, laundry soap. She started to cruise past the pet aisle then stopped. Chewing her lip, she came to a decision, and continued shopping.
She was choosing toilet paper when he casually strolled down the aisle in his black leather jacket, jeans and white t-shirt. He was still wearing his sunglasses. God, she loved him in shades.
"You about done?"
She ignored him. Double roll, but not a jumbo pack. That brand was too thick. That one was too expensive. And, that one was too scratchy.
"You do realize I pay you by the hour?"
Millie sighed. "Do you want a rash or not?"
"What?"
"Never mind." She tossed a jumbo package of the most expensive brand into the cart as Jack started pushing it towards the back of the store. "You want meatloaf, roast, or a pot of chili?"
"Those are my only choices?"
She glared at him, suddenly remembering why she hated shopping with him. Did all men turn into complete assholes at the sliding glass entry doors, or was it just Jack? "Fine. Then, what do you want?"
"Chili dogs."
Millie groaned. Compromise. With Jack, it was all about compromise. "How about a pot of chili, and we’ll buy hot dogs for leftovers?"
"Oh, yeah. That sounds good. Can we get corn chips?"
"They’re your arteries."
"That’s rich, Little Ms. Double Stuff."
"Speaking of which, you’re out of milk." Millie stopped then set two large cans of diced tomatoes into the cart. Frowning, she added another. If he wanted chili dogs, she’d have to make an extra large batch. She mentally added hot dog buns, ground beef and sausage, black beans, and green chilies to her list. She glanced down the aisle, wondering if he had cilantro. "Oh, crap." She spun around, facing Jack and grabbing the front end of the cart for support. "Oh, crap."
"What?"
"Oh, no."
"What?"
"It’s Gina Jordan," she whispered.
Jack leaned towards her. "Who’s Gina Jordan?" he whispered back.
"I went to school with her. She was best friends with Connie Blankenship."
"Connie who?"
"Booger Fingers." At Jack’s frown, Millie grimaced, and waved a dismissive hand at him. "Never mind. Just . . . they were cheerleaders."
"Okay."
He was clueless. Millie could tell. Then again, how could she expect him to understand the complex social structure of American teenage girls - a ruthless, insensitive pecking order that, if you were unlucky enough, tended to follow you into adulthood? "They were cheerleaders," she slowly repeated, "and I . . . wasn’t."
Jack nodded. "Got it."
Clueless. She sighed deeply.
"Millie? Millie Guthro?"
Turning to confront the disbelieving voice of one of the biggest snobs to ever walk the halls of Monument High, Millie saw Jack trying not to smile. Before she could flash him a warning glare, there was Gina Jordan in all her big-haired, polished-nails, coordinated-outfit, high-heeled glory. Geesh, she was even worse than Millie remembered. She looked like a cheap imitation of that blue-haired Barbie woman on the religious channel.
"I’m sorry, do I know you?"
"It’s me! Gina Richardson. Well, you remember me as Gina Jordan."
Millie squinted, smiling slightly. "Gina Jordan. Gina Jordan." She shook her head.
"Oh, silly." The slightly overweight woman pushed her cart out of the way, and lifted her arms straight out at her sides. "Give me an ‘M’," she slapped her ample hips. "Give me an ‘O’."
Millie heard a masculine snicker from behind her. Heaven help us. "Oh!" She reached out a hand, hoping to stop the madness. "Gina Jordan."
"Yeah," Gina tittered. "So, how are you? Gads, I haven’t seen you in ages. I’ll bet it’s been twelve years. Of course, I stay pretty busy. I married Pete Richardson. But then, you probably knew that."
"No, actually, I-"
"Pete’s an accountant. We have two of the most beautiful children. Hannah is the oldest. She turned ten last fall. Can you believe it? I’ve been working with her in the pageant circuit since she was, oh, about four or five, I guess. The talent that girl has . . . everyone comments on it. Do you follow any of the pageants?"
"Not-"
"Then there’s Kyle. He’ll be eight next month. My little baby," she sighed. "So handsome. Just like his father. And, smart, of course."
"Of course," Millie mumbled.
"They keep me busy. Just hopping. But, what about you? Last I heard, you’d never married. No kids, still? Oh." She reached over and patted Millie on the shoulder.
Jack cleared his throat.
"I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have Pete, and my babies. Oh, my. Just the thought of being all alone."
"Uh, Em?"
Millie flinched at Jack’s soft voice. Em? When she glanced at him, he was smiling that sexy smile - the one that usually made her thighs shake. Right now, however, she simply wanted to vomit.
"Hun, aren’t you going to introduce me to your . . . friend?"
"Oh." Hun? Millie frowned and swallowed dryly. "Yeah. Gina, this is Colonel Jack O’Neill. Jack’s my-"
"Fiancé," he said, stepping up beside her, and slipping an arm across Millie’s shoulders.
"Fiancé? Oh," Gina smiled stiffly, "my. I apologize. I didn’t see a ring, and I just assumed . . . ."
"Dammit, honey," Jack muttered, pressing a soft kiss against Millie's hair. "I’m so sorry. I did it again, didn’t I?"
Millie frowned up at him. "You did?"
Jack pulled her close, pressing her face against his chest with one strong hand, while resting the other on her jean-clad butt. He smiled over at Gina. "I’m afraid I have this terrible habit of stripping her naked, and making mad, passionate love to her for hours on end. Then, when I finally . . . come to my senses, so to speak, I’m absolutely starving." He leaned towards Gina, and lowered his voice. "But, I’m sure you know all about that."
Gina blinked, and gulped. "Oh. Yes. Of . . . of course."
"Of course," Jack agreed. Straightening, he released Millie’s head and captured her chin with his hand. The hand fondling her butt tightened its hold, pressing her intimately against him as he stared down at her. From this distance - or rather, lack of it - she could almost see the evil glint harboring behind the dark lenses. "I was in such a hurry to buy some snacks and get back," he pressed his lips against hers - holy freakin’ tar! he kissed her! - "to what we were doing, that I hardly even let you get dressed. In fact," he pressed another kiss on her mouth, this one slow and sensual, then pulled away and whispered in her ear, "are you wearing those little undies with the day of the week embroidered on them?"
Despite the fact that it was impossible for Gina to have heard him, Millie blushed and tried to push him away. "Jack!"
He laughed seductively, and clutched her to him, sighing dramatically. "God, I can’t get enough of you." He nuzzled her neck, his breath hot and humid, and smelling pleasantly of those whisper-thin breath strip thingys. He’d made her try one on the drive over; said he hated the taste of them, but he couldn’t get over the fact that they just disappeared on his tongue.
Her face pressed into the black leather jacket, Millie patted him on the waist, trying to get his attention. "Uh, honey." She never thought she’d die by suffocation while standing between the refried frijoles and the canned succotash.
Jack grabbed her face in both hands, held her slightly away from him, and turned her head so that she was staring right into the made-up eyes of a surprised looking Barbie doll. "Look at that face," Jack ordered, smashing Millie’s checks like Aunt Bertha used to do about three decades ago. She was pretty sure it wasn’t a good look for her even back then. "Now, that’s true beauty," Jack declared.
Millie smiled at Gina - a distorted, fat-cheeked smile. "He’s a pilot," she said, as if that explained things.
"Oh. I see."
She did?
Jack smiled. "You should count yourself lucky, Jennifer."
"Gina," Gina quietly corrected.
Jack shrugged. "Whatever. A service man like myself, who puts his life on the line for his country, gone for weeks . . . days at a time. Never knowing when you’re going to die. If you’ll ever see your lover again. And a man has . . . needs, you know." Jack stared down at Millie. "Special needs," he whispered. Slipping an arm around Millie’s shoulders, he looked back over at Gina. "Thank God, I have Em to come home to. I mean, maybe it’s not the same between you and Philip."
"Pete."
"Whatever. I mean, Philip being a banker and all . . ."
"Accountant."
"I’m sure it’s different for you. You always know what tomorrow is going to bring. The same thing, day after day after day. Eating dinner together every night, with the kids fighting and screaming. Trying to watch a little television, with the kids fighting and screaming. Philip going to bed early because he’s tired or bored or . . . well, tired of the fighting and the screaming. And by the time you get to bed, he’s already asleep. And, maybe, just maybe, you’re kind of glad. Because, as you lay there in the dim light coming out of the bathroom that you’re going to have to clean in the morning, you start to wonder if that weird little freckle thing on his nose is going to turn into a big old wart like the one his dad had, and if he’s ever going to do something about the hair that’s growing out of his ears. And you roll over in your flannel nightgown and try not to think about the fact that his secretary is twenty pounds lighter and twenty years younger than you are. Or, that your biggest decision tomorrow is going to be whether to start the day with waffles or French toast. Maybe you even take a little something to help you sleep, so you don’t have to think about the effect that tiara is having on Little Miss Hallelujah’s brain, because at the rate you’re going, she’ll be knocked up and married before she’s out of high school anyway." Jack gently squeezed Millie’s shoulder. "Yeah, I’ll bet you’re real lucky that way."
Millie wasn’t sure what shocked her more - the look on Gina’s face, or Jack’s little speech - but the pregnant pause that lingered between them was laborious and dreadful. "Um, gee," she forced a grin, "it sure was nice to see you, Gina."
Gina blinked, forced her gaze away from Jack then looked over at Millie. "Yes. I should . . . I really need to be going now."
"Oh, that’s a shame," Jack said. "Are you sure you don’t want to join us for lunch?"
"God, no-," Gina faltered. "I mean, gosh, no, I can’t. Really. I have to be somewhere."
After they exchanged a quick good-bye, Millie waited until Gina disappeared around the end of the aisle then turned to Jack and stared up at him. "What the hell was that about?"
Jack shrugged. "Too much?" When she didn’t answer, he smiled. "Something wrong, hun?"
"Okay," Millie turned around and grabbed hold of the cart, "no more of those breath strip thingys for you. I think you’ve had a reaction."
"You didn’t seem to mind my breath a few minutes ago."
"Hey!" Millie swung around, glaring at him. "You kissed me. Remember?"
Jack smiled. "Yes. I certainly do." When she huffed and turned away again, he added, "And by the way, if you hated it so much, why’d you kiss me back?"
"I didn’t kiss you back. I was fighting you off."
"Right."
"And what would you have done if she’d agreed to have lunch with us?"
Jack shrugged. "I don’t know. Make love to you on the table?"
"Dammit, Jack. You can be such a . . . such a . . . . Here!" Millie reached into the cart, and handed him the bag of kitty litter.
"What’s this? I don’t have a cat."
"And neither do I. So, just . . . put it back. I don’t need it."
Muttering something under his breath about women and ‘issues,’ Jack shoved the bag on top of a shelf crammed with canned baby peas. "Don’t forget, we need corn chips."
"I won’t forget. We’ll get your damned corn chips." Millie headed for the meat case. "Do you want shredded cheese for your chili?"
"Oh, yeah. That’s a great idea. And beer. We need to stop off for beer on the way home."
"Okay." As Jack stood grimacing at a package of tripe, Millie selected the ground beef and some sausage. "Jack?"
He poked at the plastic covered honeycomb, flinching when it didn’t spring back beneath his fingertip. "Hmm?"
"Have I ever introduced you to Connie?"
"Who?"
"Connie Blankenship. She’s one of the cashiers here. Did I tell you that I went to school with her?"
Jack suddenly looked over at her, frowning. "No. You never mentioned that."
"She was a cheerleader, too. A real snob."
"Well, in that case, do we really want to introduce me to her? Shouldn’t we just, you know, pick another line or something?"
"Actually," Millie tossed the packages of meat into the cart, "I was thinking maybe we should invite her to lunch."
"Holy crap," Jack mumbled.
Millie innocently smiled over at him. "Did you say something?"
Jack’s shoulders sagged. "I said . . . sure, hun. Whatever you say."
<finis>
Author’s Note: This is for those who asked for more. Millie and I - we aim to please. Thanks, Lynette, for the beta. Any mistakes are mine, and mine alone.
© 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.