1969

Author's Notes: a missing scene from 1969. Housed at Stargatefan.com.

Daniel shrugged himself comfortably into his jacket, looked over his office one last time, then flipped the switch and descended the room into darkness. Shutting the door behind him, he made his way down to the lift only to stop outside Carter's lab. Hesitated briefly before pushing the ajar door open, and then blinking in surprise.

"Jack!"

O'Neill glanced over his shoulder at the intrusion, but waved a hand in a vague greeting. "Hey."

"You coming? Going to this Mexican restaurant was your idea." Daniel took several steps closer to where Jack sat, trying to look over his friend's shoulder at the computer screen beyond.

"Yeah, I'll only be a minute." Returning his gaze to the screen, O'Neill started slowly scrolling down the page, clicked, then stopped. Daniel continued to frown.

"Never thought I'd see Colonel Jack O'Neill voluntarily using a computer. What's up, found some new fishing website?"

Silence. Curiosity piqued, Daniel sidestepped to get a clear view of the screen. Stopped. Voice dropping to a more serious tone, he said simply: "Oh. Michael's -"

"Michael's military files. Yeah. Looks like he never made it to Canada after all."

Daniel looked down at his feet, uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Jack," he said, sincerely. "But it wasn't your fault, there was nothing you could have done."

Simply: "I know." O'Neill shifted slightly in his seat to allow his friend a better look. "He's still alive, Daniel. He came back."

Surprised: "Oh." Then, enthusiasm dampened by his confusion, Daniel added: "That's great. Right?"

Jack gave a heavy sigh. "Yeah. It is."

"So . . .?" He left the sentence unfinished.

"So . . . I guess I'm just thinking about the past." O'Neill's eyes, reflected in the glare of the computer screen, were unusually dark and troubled. "About mistakes, things I wish I could have done, things I could have prevented. The usual."

"Oh." Daniel's turn to give a sigh. "Guess we've all got those. Wishing we could go back in time and change a certain event . . ."

Sha're.

Charlie.

"Thinking of any event in particular?" O'Neill nudged.

"Nooo . . ."  Daniel looked at him suspiciously. "You?"

"No. Just general reminiscing." Neither man appeared convinced by the other's refutation, but Daniel wasn't about to let the matter drop.

"Jack . . ." He hesitated, faltering over the words. "If Sam is right -"

"And she usually is -"

"- then even with time travel, there's no way we can go back and change any event in our past."

"The whole grandfather thing."

"So maybe things are the way they are just because . . ." Another pause. "Because we're supposed to deal with them and then move on. Not ask too many what-ifs."

O'Neill shrugged casually. "Life's just a one-way ticket, right?"

"Mm." Deciding it was time to change the subject, Daniel readjusted his glasses and took a step closer to the screen. "So what happened to him?"

"Michael?" O'Neill flicked the small arrow across the page. "Came home, got a job, went back to his life - like most people."

Daniel squinted, asked: "He married Claire?"

"Well they share the same last name. Good for them. Lessee… they're living just outside New York."

A nod. "I recognise the address. It's a nice suburb."

"Says here he became some sort of writer? And a consultant to TV documentaries." Jack considered this for a moment. "Not exactly the hippy lifestyle he probably imagined, but not a bad living."

"No," Daniel agreed.

O'Neill suddenly closed the window down, returning the screen to the standard SGC wallpaper. He pushed back his chair and stood up. "Anyway," he said, "you're right. This meal was my idea, so I'd better not keep Carter and Teal'c waiting. Plus," he added, making his way to the door with Daniel keeping pace behind him, "I promised I'd introduce Teal'c to tequila."

Daniel raised his eyebrows. "Teal'c doesn't drink."

O'Neill shrugged as he put on his jacket. "No harm in asking. Though I'm half-afraid he'll start empathising with the worm. Sharing sob stories."

Daniel clamped down on his laugh, choosing instead to maintain his disapproving look. Following O'Neill out into the corridor, he was about to close the lab door when he stopped, staring after his friend's back.

It took O'Neill several seconds to realise his friend wasn't following. Turning, he was about to return the scold for being late, when he saw that Daniel had stopped in the doorway, forehead once more deepened into a frown.

"Daniel?"

Thoughtfully: "We never got a chance to thank Claire or Michael properly, did we?"

"No. I mean, it's not like we could have taken them with us like they wanted." O'Neill gestured widely at the surrounding concrete. "Welcome to our home planet guys, sorry about the decor." He paused, reassessing Daniel. "Why? What are you thinking?"

"Oh, just a vague idea. Michael and Claire might deserve some closure." Daniel pushed his glasses up with one finger, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. "You haven't thrown out those clothes yet, have you?"

*

The shrill voice of a child called out in the summer air.

"Uncle Mike! Jake hit the ball into next door's garden again!"

"Jake, go and get the ball. But be polite this time, I don't want to lose any more neighbours, okay?"

Pushing back his chair onto two legs, Michael surveyed his desk with a sigh of resignation. Papers littered the surface: receipts, credit card statements, electricity bills, and a sheaf of bank statements. For the twelfth or thirteenth time that morning he looked down at the rows of figures that lay before them, and wished fervently that they would somehow resolve themselves into some semblance of order.

His fingers tapped idly at the keys of an aging calculator, then stopped.

"How's it going?"

Warm hands snaked around his neck, started kneading his shoulders gently. Craning his head back, Michael stared up into the eyes of his wife.

"Well, either we're due for a tax rebate of several hundred dollars, or we're so far in debt we need to sell one of the boys."

"I'm not sure my sister would be too pleased if you sold one of her children."

"I guess not. Back to the drawing board then."

The hands slipped from around his neck, and Michael allowed his head to drop back to the books. Claire took a step to one side, looked over his shoulder at the accounts.

"Hmm. How about I make us both a coffee, and then we can work on them together?"

"A coffee would be wonderful."

She smiled, left the desk for the kitchen. Michael gazed at the rows of numbers for a further moment, the figures swimming before his eyes.

"Dad."

He twisted round in his chair to face a tall eighteen year old boy, dressed in jeans and a loose fitting shirt, holding out a package. Taking the offering, Michael turned it over and over in his hands. About the size of a shoe box, the item was heavily wrapped in brown packing paper, and bore a neatly typed address label and a franked stamp, but no other identifying marks.

"What is it?" Jake asked, moving closer to his father to gain a better look.

"I don't know." Carefully, Michael slid a thumb under a slice of tape and prised the paper apart. Inside sat a plain white box, its lid loosely taped to the top. Cautiously Michael ripped the tape from the cardboard, a slight paper residue sticking to its surface. Then he lifted the lid.

"Claire!"

A second later his wife stood by his side, wiping her hands on a tea towel and looking over her husband's shoulder. "What is it? Who's it from?"

"I don't know. But look…"

Slowly Michael lifted the item from out of its cardboard wrappings and stood it on the desk. Read the bottle's label curiously.

"Hey, is that whiskey?"

"Hands off," Claire retorted. "You're three years too young."

"Woah, what's the date on that thing?"

"1969," Michael answered, studying the label. "Single malt."

"Who's it from?"

"Wait, there's more." Claire reached past her husband and into the box, pulling out a strange contortion of feathers and thread. A saucer sized circle of intricately carved wood held a cobweb of chocolate brown thread, and as Claire held the object aloft, three cream and tan feathers swung from the bottom.

"I've not seen one of these for years," she breathed, softly.

"What is it?"

"A dream catcher," Michael replied, watching the feathers dance in the breeze. "You hang it over your bed and it catches all the bad dreams, giving you a peaceful nights sleep. Me and your mother used to have one, a long time ago."

"So who's it from?" the boy persisted. "Isn't there a note?"

His father rummaged in the box one last time, and removed a small white envelope. The fold was unstuck, and out dropped two items. He picked up the first - a small square of card bearing a neat line of capitals.

"Thanks for the ride," Claire read, aloud. "Hope this covers the gas money."

"I don't get it," the boy complained, shifting from foot to foot. "There's no name."

"There's this."

Michael reached out for the final item, turned it over. A small, highly bemused smile spread across his face. He stared at the item, felt a gentle hand run down his arm and clutch his hand, tightly.

"Oh my god."

The Polaroid resembled a holiday snap, that of four friends stood awkwardly posing in front of an unidentifiable group of trees. The woman stood on the left, coloured shades partly obscuring her face. Beside her stood a man wearing a ramshackle arrangement of a suede waistcoat and beige shirt. Off-centre stood a strapping black man, a purple bandana wrapped tightly around his head, and to the right of him stood an older man, greying hair complimented nicely by his scuffed leather jacket. All four were smiling.

"Hope this covers the gas money." Michael grinned wider.

Jake frowned, stuck out his lower lip. "Who are those people?"

"Hmm. That's a long story." The accounts forgotten, Michael pushed his chair around to look up at his son, glance at his wife. "Did me and your mother ever tell you about the time we ran off to Canada?"

End