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Title: Torch
Rating/Warning: PG
Wordcount: 543
Spoilers: None
By:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Category: SG-1 - Jack.
Spoilers: S9
Prompt: Forangelsgracie - Jack O'Neill. Maybe in an F-302 or something.
Summary: Jack wants reassurance that he's leaving his team in the right hands.
What’d you name her?
The warehouse is empty because it’s a Sunday of a long weekend. Jack prefers the silence because he’s got something to do that might seem a little odd to an outsider.
A little crazy.
The Guards at the gate looked at him funny when he told them where he was headed. Probably because he’d called it Hangar Eighteen instead of the name they were all used to.
The Graveyard.
I didn’t-
Yeah you did.
Alright, maybe I did. You wouldn’t laugh at a man in traction would you?
He swipes his ID card through the reader by the large double doors and waits as they grind back. He peers into the shadows, hulking shapes breaking up the line of darkness. He knows what he’s looking for because he’s seen pictures. He flicks the lights on and tarpaulin-covered shapes loom when his eyes adjust.
I called her Beth. After my grandmother
He brushes fingers over the twisted metal he passes, paying a sort of homage. He doesn’t like seeing them this way, all bent and grounded.
It seems wrong somehow.
He finds the one he’s looking for and whips back the covering.
“Hello Beth,” he breathes.
He takes in the shorn-off wings, bent metal and broken form. His gaze skips over where the starred glass of the cockpit is still marked with dark red. He puts a hand out and lays it flat on the nose, running hands up the almost slick surface.
This thing of beauty destroyed.
Cameron Mitchell’s X-302.
“I just had to ask you a question,” Jack says, almost conversational. He waits for a moment to let his presence and the pressure of his hand sink in. “There’s this young guy, cocky as hell but best damn pilot I’ve seen in a while. He’s taking my team and I just wanted to make sure… just to know that they’d be safe with him.”
He’s surrounded by the dead, or decommissioned as the various engineers and techs call them. The ships that will never see the sky. To be stripped of all their useful parts because the whole is too broken to ever fly true again.
He understands how they feel.
“You know him best. You protected him when he should’ve died. You did your job and I just wanted to ask you if it was worth it.”
Silence is his only answer. Jack wasn’t really expecting a response, not quite soft enough in the old melon for that, but seeing her, seeing Beth he is reassured. He can see from the damage that even though she hit and hit hard, Mitchell was trying to pull it out of the fire the whole way down.
His co-pilot received only minor injuries and even though it took months, Cameron managed to walk away from the landing.
That made it a good one.
“Sir?”
Jack stands and turns at the voice, seeing a younger man behind him in coveralls. He’s wiping his hands on a rag and looking wary. Jack tries not to think of him as carrion, picking over the dead.
“Sorry, I’m done,” Jack says, stepping away. He threads out through the double doors into the sunshine, fighting the urge to look back.
Rating/Warning: PG
Wordcount: 543
Spoilers: None
By:
kellifer_ficCategory: SG-1 - Jack.
Spoilers: S9
Prompt: For
angelsgracie - Jack O'Neill. Maybe in an F-302 or something.Summary: Jack wants reassurance that he's leaving his team in the right hands.
What’d you name her?
The warehouse is empty because it’s a Sunday of a long weekend. Jack prefers the silence because he’s got something to do that might seem a little odd to an outsider.
A little crazy.
The Guards at the gate looked at him funny when he told them where he was headed. Probably because he’d called it Hangar Eighteen instead of the name they were all used to.
The Graveyard.
I didn’t-
Yeah you did.
Alright, maybe I did. You wouldn’t laugh at a man in traction would you?
He swipes his ID card through the reader by the large double doors and waits as they grind back. He peers into the shadows, hulking shapes breaking up the line of darkness. He knows what he’s looking for because he’s seen pictures. He flicks the lights on and tarpaulin-covered shapes loom when his eyes adjust.
I called her Beth. After my grandmother
He brushes fingers over the twisted metal he passes, paying a sort of homage. He doesn’t like seeing them this way, all bent and grounded.
It seems wrong somehow.
He finds the one he’s looking for and whips back the covering.
“Hello Beth,” he breathes.
He takes in the shorn-off wings, bent metal and broken form. His gaze skips over where the starred glass of the cockpit is still marked with dark red. He puts a hand out and lays it flat on the nose, running hands up the almost slick surface.
This thing of beauty destroyed.
Cameron Mitchell’s X-302.
“I just had to ask you a question,” Jack says, almost conversational. He waits for a moment to let his presence and the pressure of his hand sink in. “There’s this young guy, cocky as hell but best damn pilot I’ve seen in a while. He’s taking my team and I just wanted to make sure… just to know that they’d be safe with him.”
He’s surrounded by the dead, or decommissioned as the various engineers and techs call them. The ships that will never see the sky. To be stripped of all their useful parts because the whole is too broken to ever fly true again.
He understands how they feel.
“You know him best. You protected him when he should’ve died. You did your job and I just wanted to ask you if it was worth it.”
Silence is his only answer. Jack wasn’t really expecting a response, not quite soft enough in the old melon for that, but seeing her, seeing Beth he is reassured. He can see from the damage that even though she hit and hit hard, Mitchell was trying to pull it out of the fire the whole way down.
His co-pilot received only minor injuries and even though it took months, Cameron managed to walk away from the landing.
That made it a good one.
“Sir?”
Jack stands and turns at the voice, seeing a younger man behind him in coveralls. He’s wiping his hands on a rag and looking wary. Jack tries not to think of him as carrion, picking over the dead.
“Sorry, I’m done,” Jack says, stepping away. He threads out through the double doors into the sunshine, fighting the urge to look back.
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