Fic: Rumour Has It
Apr. 5th, 2013 01:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
emeraldsnakesTitle: Rumour Has It
Series:Set in the same 'Verse as camshaft22's SG1 Blackhawks AU and my own contribution(s)
Fandom(s): Stargate SG-1/Hockey RPF
Pairing(s): n/a
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,351
Summary: "Hello?" Jon spoke again. "For crying out loud, if you're a telemarketer I just might shoot you."
Notes: I forgot I’d even finished this one.
Content Warnings: n/a
Alex debated calling Jon for days. He didn't really know the kid, for one, and he didn't think they'd ever be friends like he and Jack were. There was just something about the way he'd seen them interact and the way Jack talked about Jon that made him hesitate to ever bring the kid up. They didn't acknowledge one another like family, not unless they had to and Alex wasn't sure he wanted to know the history behind that. But eventually his worry won out, and he'd already convinced Zhenya to ask Crosby to ask Toews for the younger O'Neill's number; there was no sense letting that work go to waste.
His first call went to voicemail and he didn't bother to leave a message. The second call, a day later, also went to voicemail but Alex had planned it out, there was no way Jon wasn't home. He called again immediately.
"O'Neill."
Alex paused, taken aback by how much Jon sounded like Jack. It was too eerily similar, almost identical but Alex had heard the kid speak before yet not noticed it.
"Hello?" Jon spoke again. "For crying out loud, if you're a telemarketer I just might shoot you."
"You have a gun?" Alex blurted out.
There was a pause on the other end, "who is this?"
"Ovechkin."
“How the hell did you get my number?" Jon demanded. "Shit, I'm going to have to have words with the old man."
"I want to talk to you about that," Alex cut in, though Jon ignored him and continued to speak.
"Oh, and you can conveniently forget you ever had my number too. No offence but there is a thick - very thick - line that separates our lives and I'd like to keep it that way."
"I'd let him know if I could find him," Alex replied.
There was a significant pause on the other end. "When was the last time you talked to him?"
"Three weeks," Alex told him, then added, "he tells me when he’s going to be away."
"Of course he does," Jon mumbled unimpressed. "Whatever, I'll make some calls but it might take a while."
"Thank you," Alex said sincerely.
Jon replied with a grunt and hung up the phone.
Alex frowned at his phone for a moment, wondering if the barely concealed hostility was for him or for Jack. He quickly decided that he shouldn't be bothered because Jon was helping anyways and that's what he wanted. He just hoped that Jack was okay.
---------------------------------------------
Jon would never admit it out loud, but what Ovechkin had told him bothered him. He'd been under the assumption that the old man didn't go on missions anymore now that he was riding a desk at Washington, and he knew that in the SGC the only thing that kept someone away longer than expected was a mission gone wrong. He didn't want to think that Jack was dead, he was 75% sure Jack had made concessions that he be notified if he died, but Jon knew what going through the Gate was like. If he wasn't dead he could be suffering something worse.
Paul was his first - and really only - choice on someone to call. He hesitated though because with Jack gone Paul would be doing twice the work and he didn't want to bother him. The Colonel had done so much for him already he just didn't want to add something else for him to deal with.
He left it for a day. He took his pregame nap and tried to move it to the back of his mind. They faced Nashville that night. He didn't get a goal or an assist but he did get five minutes for fighting after Sharpie was wiped out. They won though, in overtime and Jon declined the invitation to go out for drinks after.
He went to bed early but his sleep was troubled. He dreamt of Ba'al, of being his prisoner again, dying over and over. He dreamt of of other missions, some good, some bad, the good ones turning bad. He dreamt of SG-1, there along side him. Sometimes though it wasn't SG-1 but various Hawks, scared, unprepared and wholly out of depth.
They died, all of them and he woke with a gasping breath. He turned to bury his face in his pillow and clung to his bed, heart racing, limbs shaking, trying to breath deep, calm breaths. He didn't dream like that much anymore, his lives mixing to torment him. He'd thought the last one had been the end of it, but maybe aliens still scared him more than his own damn race.
"Wanna talk?" Sharpie accosted him after practice.
Jon growled at him. He'd continued to have a shit of a morning since waking up and talking about it with Sharpie wasn't going to make it any better. He couldn't even look at Sharpie without flashing back to his nightmares and seeing him dead. It had effected him on the ice, fucking up every drill and it continued to effect him now. He just wanted to go home and put himself back together.
"Right, well fuck you too," Sharpie snapped. "But you've been acting weird and I'm not going to leave you alone till I know you're alright."
Jon closed his eyes and sighed. Stubborn Canadians. "I don't want to talk."
Sharpie hummed, "Come on then."
He grabbed Jon's arm and dragged him out to his car, quiet chuckled trailing them from the rest of the team.
"The fuck are you doing?" Jon demanded.
Sharpie smirked, "Just you wait."
----
"Hey Paul, it's Jon. Give me a call back when you have the time."
----
"Jon. Sorry for taking so long to get back to you, but I've been dealing with a bit of a situation."
Jon dropped into his favoured arm chair, beer in hand, "Heard about that."
Paul barked a laugh, "Sure you did. What's up? Nice hat trick the other day."
"Thanks. Actually, I want to know what's going on with Jack. I know he's been away longer than he was supposed to be."
"Damn," Paul breathed exhausted. "I thought we'd kept that under wraps. How'd you find out?"
Jon chuckled, "The old man's got a bromance with Alexander Ovechkin. They check up on one another."
Paul sighed, "Of course. I'd forgotten about that."
Jon grinned and took a long draw from his beer. It was pretty easy to forget about Jack and Ovie's friendship given that it was such an unlikely thing. But Jon knew exactly why it worked even if he didn't approve of it being Ovechkin of all people.
"Is he alright?"
"He's fine," Paul lied. "Mostly. He was imprisoned after a breakdown in negotiations and extraction via the gate was unsuccessful. The General Hammond is on its way there as we speak, detouring from her voyage home."
Jon wanted to ask why all their space ships were out of range for so long but his phone wasn't as secure as he liked to pretend it was and he probably wouldn't get a very satisfying answer anyway. Clearance was such a pain in the ass sometimes.
"How are you holding up?" Jon asked concerned. Now that he knew Jack would be alright he could shove that part of him back into a box and focus on someone he'd chosen to give a damn about.
"Nothing's blown up and the IOA's been pretty quiet so things aren't actually as bad as they could be," Paul sounded tired. Jon wondered how much sleep he'd been getting; probably no where near enough. He didn’t keep him up much longer.
----
To: Ovechkin
Gen O’Neill fine. Still incommunicado. Approx 1 week till stateside. Will update w/ changes.
----
To: jd_oneill42@gmail.com
From: j_oneill@sgc.mil.gov
Subject: Rumours of My Death…
Heard you were worried about me. Surprise, I’m alive.
To: j_oneill@sgc.mil.gov
From: jd_oneill42@gmail.com
Subject: Re: Rumours of My Death…
Fuck you, I was not worried.
Series:Set in the same 'Verse as camshaft22's SG1 Blackhawks AU and my own contribution(s)
Fandom(s): Stargate SG-1/Hockey RPF
Pairing(s): n/a
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,351
Summary: "Hello?" Jon spoke again. "For crying out loud, if you're a telemarketer I just might shoot you."
Notes: I forgot I’d even finished this one.
Content Warnings: n/a
Alex debated calling Jon for days. He didn't really know the kid, for one, and he didn't think they'd ever be friends like he and Jack were. There was just something about the way he'd seen them interact and the way Jack talked about Jon that made him hesitate to ever bring the kid up. They didn't acknowledge one another like family, not unless they had to and Alex wasn't sure he wanted to know the history behind that. But eventually his worry won out, and he'd already convinced Zhenya to ask Crosby to ask Toews for the younger O'Neill's number; there was no sense letting that work go to waste.
His first call went to voicemail and he didn't bother to leave a message. The second call, a day later, also went to voicemail but Alex had planned it out, there was no way Jon wasn't home. He called again immediately.
"O'Neill."
Alex paused, taken aback by how much Jon sounded like Jack. It was too eerily similar, almost identical but Alex had heard the kid speak before yet not noticed it.
"Hello?" Jon spoke again. "For crying out loud, if you're a telemarketer I just might shoot you."
"You have a gun?" Alex blurted out.
There was a pause on the other end, "who is this?"
"Ovechkin."
“How the hell did you get my number?" Jon demanded. "Shit, I'm going to have to have words with the old man."
"I want to talk to you about that," Alex cut in, though Jon ignored him and continued to speak.
"Oh, and you can conveniently forget you ever had my number too. No offence but there is a thick - very thick - line that separates our lives and I'd like to keep it that way."
"I'd let him know if I could find him," Alex replied.
There was a significant pause on the other end. "When was the last time you talked to him?"
"Three weeks," Alex told him, then added, "he tells me when he’s going to be away."
"Of course he does," Jon mumbled unimpressed. "Whatever, I'll make some calls but it might take a while."
"Thank you," Alex said sincerely.
Jon replied with a grunt and hung up the phone.
Alex frowned at his phone for a moment, wondering if the barely concealed hostility was for him or for Jack. He quickly decided that he shouldn't be bothered because Jon was helping anyways and that's what he wanted. He just hoped that Jack was okay.
---------------------------------------------
Jon would never admit it out loud, but what Ovechkin had told him bothered him. He'd been under the assumption that the old man didn't go on missions anymore now that he was riding a desk at Washington, and he knew that in the SGC the only thing that kept someone away longer than expected was a mission gone wrong. He didn't want to think that Jack was dead, he was 75% sure Jack had made concessions that he be notified if he died, but Jon knew what going through the Gate was like. If he wasn't dead he could be suffering something worse.
Paul was his first - and really only - choice on someone to call. He hesitated though because with Jack gone Paul would be doing twice the work and he didn't want to bother him. The Colonel had done so much for him already he just didn't want to add something else for him to deal with.
He left it for a day. He took his pregame nap and tried to move it to the back of his mind. They faced Nashville that night. He didn't get a goal or an assist but he did get five minutes for fighting after Sharpie was wiped out. They won though, in overtime and Jon declined the invitation to go out for drinks after.
He went to bed early but his sleep was troubled. He dreamt of Ba'al, of being his prisoner again, dying over and over. He dreamt of of other missions, some good, some bad, the good ones turning bad. He dreamt of SG-1, there along side him. Sometimes though it wasn't SG-1 but various Hawks, scared, unprepared and wholly out of depth.
They died, all of them and he woke with a gasping breath. He turned to bury his face in his pillow and clung to his bed, heart racing, limbs shaking, trying to breath deep, calm breaths. He didn't dream like that much anymore, his lives mixing to torment him. He'd thought the last one had been the end of it, but maybe aliens still scared him more than his own damn race.
"Wanna talk?" Sharpie accosted him after practice.
Jon growled at him. He'd continued to have a shit of a morning since waking up and talking about it with Sharpie wasn't going to make it any better. He couldn't even look at Sharpie without flashing back to his nightmares and seeing him dead. It had effected him on the ice, fucking up every drill and it continued to effect him now. He just wanted to go home and put himself back together.
"Right, well fuck you too," Sharpie snapped. "But you've been acting weird and I'm not going to leave you alone till I know you're alright."
Jon closed his eyes and sighed. Stubborn Canadians. "I don't want to talk."
Sharpie hummed, "Come on then."
He grabbed Jon's arm and dragged him out to his car, quiet chuckled trailing them from the rest of the team.
"The fuck are you doing?" Jon demanded.
Sharpie smirked, "Just you wait."
----
"Hey Paul, it's Jon. Give me a call back when you have the time."
----
"Jon. Sorry for taking so long to get back to you, but I've been dealing with a bit of a situation."
Jon dropped into his favoured arm chair, beer in hand, "Heard about that."
Paul barked a laugh, "Sure you did. What's up? Nice hat trick the other day."
"Thanks. Actually, I want to know what's going on with Jack. I know he's been away longer than he was supposed to be."
"Damn," Paul breathed exhausted. "I thought we'd kept that under wraps. How'd you find out?"
Jon chuckled, "The old man's got a bromance with Alexander Ovechkin. They check up on one another."
Paul sighed, "Of course. I'd forgotten about that."
Jon grinned and took a long draw from his beer. It was pretty easy to forget about Jack and Ovie's friendship given that it was such an unlikely thing. But Jon knew exactly why it worked even if he didn't approve of it being Ovechkin of all people.
"Is he alright?"
"He's fine," Paul lied. "Mostly. He was imprisoned after a breakdown in negotiations and extraction via the gate was unsuccessful. The General Hammond is on its way there as we speak, detouring from her voyage home."
Jon wanted to ask why all their space ships were out of range for so long but his phone wasn't as secure as he liked to pretend it was and he probably wouldn't get a very satisfying answer anyway. Clearance was such a pain in the ass sometimes.
"How are you holding up?" Jon asked concerned. Now that he knew Jack would be alright he could shove that part of him back into a box and focus on someone he'd chosen to give a damn about.
"Nothing's blown up and the IOA's been pretty quiet so things aren't actually as bad as they could be," Paul sounded tired. Jon wondered how much sleep he'd been getting; probably no where near enough. He didn’t keep him up much longer.
----
To: Ovechkin
Gen O’Neill fine. Still incommunicado. Approx 1 week till stateside. Will update w/ changes.
----
To: jd_oneill42@gmail.com
From: j_oneill@sgc.mil.gov
Subject: Rumours of My Death…
Heard you were worried about me. Surprise, I’m alive.
To: j_oneill@sgc.mil.gov
From: jd_oneill42@gmail.com
Subject: Re: Rumours of My Death…
Fuck you, I was not worried.
