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March 17th 1978:
Jack’s vision is blurred, his head spinning; he’s being jostled about by the riotous crowd and feels like he might fall over at any minute, but he doesn’t care. He knows there’s a huge grin plastered on his face and he knows there are people laughing at him; he can hear the comments about not being able to hold his drink, about how he’ll regret it in the morning, but none of that bothers him. There’s fast, lively music, men singing old songs he doesn’t know the words to. It seems like half the guys here don’t know them either, but they sing along anyway, making up the crudest lyrics they can, off the cuff and full of Guinness.
It seems he’s been waiting his whole life for this particular March 17th, the first one after his 21st birthday, the first one where he gets an invite from his old man and can legally buy him a beer. His brothers’ are jealous as hell, but Jack can’t help it if his lot in life means he reaches these milestones first, if he passes through the family’s rites of passage before them. He’s much more comfortable around his dad and his drunken friends than he expected, and he listens to them telling stories about their misspent youth, occasionally getting a knowing smirk shot his way. All of the tales are funny, jovial; this isn’t the day to be melancholy.
As the beer flows and the night wears on, the stories become more and more dirty, and inevitably the conversation turns to women. Apparently his dad was a bit of a dog in his youth and Jack vaguely wonders how much of this his mother knows, and if she’s aware of just how bad his father’s language gets when he’s out of her earshot. He knows for a fact that she would tear his old man a new one if he dared to use those words in the house.
“Your boy ok, Bill?” comes a gruff voice from beside him and his dad shoots him a look, weighing up the sight in front of him.
“He’s fine,” his dad answers and their eyes lock for a moment, a flash of shared understanding passing between them and his dad winks at him, silently speaking the words neither of them will ever say aloud. This is between them. Just them.
A six foot leprechaun slaps Jack on the back, offering a slurred greeting and pulling his attention back to the rest of the world with a jerk. Jack hopes to god that it’s someone in a costume and he’s not completely losing his mind.
March 17th 1982:
Planning his bachelor party for the 17th had seemed like a stroke of genius a few weeks ago. Now, with his head in the toilet, throwing up green, Jack’s not so sure. He slumped to the floor, resting his cheek on the cool tiles and moaned pitifully. The tiles felt nice, cool against his flushed skin and he could feel himself already half drifting to sleep. He heard soft footsteps making their way along the carpeted hallway and to the bathroom door and knew that he was in real trouble. She hated it when he woke her up. He has no idea what time it is, but he does know that he’d staggered down the street, arm slung around his buddy’s shoulders, to the first whispers of sunrise and he can hear birds outside the bathroom window.
He rolled over onto his back to find Sara standing in the bathroom doorway with her hands on her hips, her hair rumpled from sleep, and he gave her a sheepish smile, hoping she’d take pity on the pathetic mess of a man in front of her.
“God, look at the state of you,” she muttered, getting to her knees beside him and pushing his too-long hair back off his sweaty forehead. She’d been nagging him for weeks to get it cut, but he’d been adamant that his last few weeks of bachelorhood would be spent hair-cut free. Although he had promised to get it cut before the wedding, fearing that she might just leave him at the altar if he showed up with messy hair.
“You’re an O’Neill now,” he slurred, “You have to get used to this.”
She chuckled and tried to pull him upright, “Not yet, flyboy, you have to actually marry me first.”
He slumped against her, his head spinning, his stomach revolting at the movement but too empty to do anything about it. “S’why I’m lying on the bathroom floor, isn’t it?”
“Charming,” she said dryly, “Is that Burke on the couch?”
“Yeah,” he kissed her shoulder and then rested his forehead on it, thinking he could happily just fall asleep right here, “Don’t mind, do you baby? He did get me home.”
“I heard. And so did half the neighbours. You were...singing.”
Jack groaned into her shoulder. “Loud?”
“Very.”
He swore. Their neighbours in the apartment upstairs already had it in for them and the slightest disturbance these days had them calling up the landlord. If he got them kicked out he’d never hear the end of it. “Come on,” she urged, and he protested a little when she moved, “Let’s get you into bed.”
His head shot up at that and he gave her a wolfish grin, waggling his eyebrows at her and she laughed.
“Yeah right Jack, you can’t even stand.” She was right of course, the cracking pain in his head notifying him that moving that quickly just wasn’t a good idea, but he slid his hand around her neck anyway, pulling her lips halfway to his before she pushed him away and stood up quickly.
“No chance,” she said, half laughing, “At least brush your teeth first.”
He clambered to his feet, clinging onto the sink for support, alarmed at just how much he was swaying. He steadied himself, managing to turn on the tap and squeeze a little toothpaste onto his brush while she watched him, highly amused at such a simple task taking him so much effort. She didn’t offer any help, just perched on the edge of the bathtub, grinning at him in the mirror. Witch.
“Ohhhhhhh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are caaaaalling...”
“Ja-ack!”
March 17th 1998:
He hadn’t bothered with this lately, not exactly turning into a “happy drunk” for the last few years, but he figured it was about time his team cut loose a little; god knew they needed a break. He actually managed to convince Hammond to let Teal’c off the base for a few days, under his and his team’s supervision, and practically ordered Daniel and Carter to meet him in the parking lot at the end of the day.
He took them to his favourite bar, in which the owner had excelled himself with the tacky decorations; there was green bunting everywhere, green beer mats, and a throng of people all drinking green beer and wearing ridiculously over-sized novelty hats. He sighed happily and grinned at his companions; Carter and Daniel looked decidedly apprehensive, Teal’c just looked plain confused. He’s tried to explain the significance of the day to Teal’c, he’d even enlisted Daniel’s help, but ‘Oscar the Grouch’ had simply told Teal’c it was nonsense, a corporate ploy to sell tacky paraphernalia and beer. Jack had to concede defeat, and had resorted to the sympathy vote, “family tradition....can’t get home in time...yadda yadda” and surprisingly, it had worked. The three of them had relented and agreed to join him for the evening.
“None of us are even Irish, Jack,” Daniel whined as he surveyed the room and Jack snorted.
“Do you think any of these people are? Everybody’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day, Danny-boy,” he shot back at him with a smirk and a distinct look of foreboding had crossed Daniel’s face at the mention of the nickname.
They’d played along all evening; wore the silly hats, drank the green beer. But as soon as Jack was drunk enough to start singing, they’d made their excuses and bugged out on him, even his stalwart second in command. Well, he’d thought it was funny; Daniel clearly hadn’t and had been horrified when Jack’s solo effort inspired a rousing chorus to fill the room, burying his head in his hands and wincing when not one single person in the makeshift choral group hit the higher notes, even though they all gave it their best shot.
March 17th 2002:
Jack sat on his couch, glaring at the glass of water in his hand. Water, for god’s sake. He was tempted to tip something green in it, just so he would feel better, but then decided that might depress him even more. He flicked through his TV channels, finding nothing of interest; even the Simpsons couldn’t keep his attention at the moment. His answering machine was jammed full of messages from friends and casual acquaintances, who all knew that this was the one day of the year they were guaranteed to find Jack O’Neill propping up the bar and increasing the profit margin of his favourite haunts.
Usually.
But not this year.
His favourite holiday had suddenly lost all of its meaning. His friends, his family, his life, had a huge gaping hole in it that couldn’t be filled and couldn’t be forgotten. And if he heard that fucking song even once...
He’d made Hammond clear all the drink out of his place a week ago, after he’d driven Jack home following his release from the infirmary. He’d confessed, in his slightly dopey, sedated state, that he was afraid he would start drinking and not want to stop. So Hammond had taken his words to heart and had removed everything, leaving Jack’s house utterly dry. He was a good man, a good friend, and Jack wondered how on Earth he would ever repay the patient understanding he’d been given for the last few months.
His doorbell startled him, his heart hammering in his chest as he stood and cursed under his breath. He was going to have to fix that before he got back on duty. Being scared of loud noises was one thing he couldn’t afford to have on his resume.
He opened the door to find his team staring at him, matching smiles on their faces, but Carter’s didn’t quite reach her eyes. Teal’c held up the boxes in his hand.
“We brought pizza and a movie,” she said nodding towards Teal’c and then barging her way past Jack before he even had a chance to think about closing the door. She handed the movie box to Jonas and pointed him towards the living room, giving him a gentle shove when he hesitated in the unfamiliar house.
“Carter...”
“Ah!” she waved at him, “No arguments. We can’t have you moping around here by yourself, not today.” Her movements were too exaggerated, too animated; not Carter at all. She was nervous, he realised. Nervous that he’d blow up at them and kick them out.
“Alright,” he sighed and she rewarded him with a bright smile, much more genuine this time, and produced a six pack from the bag in her hand.
“Janet said you can have one. Two at the very most.” She grinned as his eyes fixed on the bottles. Guinness. Of course.
“My meds?” he asked. Sedatives, antidepressants; a whole lot of chemicals designed to help him forget. Ones that quite clearly stated he wasn’t to drink.
Carter shrugged her shoulders, her voice quieting, “It’ll probably just make you sleep,” she regarded him for a moment, the touchy topic they’d been avoiding for the last week hanging between them, and asked hesitantly, “Which will probably help, right?”
Was it that obvious that he wasn’t sleeping? He wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t really eating, and hadn’t spoken to anybody in days. He couldn’t seem to find peace at night; his head was too full of bright white lights, searing pain, Shayla...Daniel. He nodded slowly. He couldn’t do anything else.
She gave him a small smile and made towards his living room, but he gently touched his fingers to her elbow, pulling her back towards him.
“Thanks,” he said simply. And he meant it.
March 17th 2008:
The blast of a car horn had Jack nearly jumping out of his skin. His eyes shot open to the blinding light of a set of headlamps and he squinted, raising his head up off the hard bench he’d fallen asleep on. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and wondering why the hell he was sleeping outside. Then he looked around and saw the closed bar behind him. Damn, how long had he been out here?
The car hadn’t moved; the engine was still running, and when he looked harder, he could just make out a very familiar form in the driver’s seat, her fingers drumming impatiently on the wheel. Carter. He must have called her. He winced; she really didn’t look happy. He pushed himself up off the bench, the blood suddenly rushing to his head and making him stumble a little. He steadied himself, taking small steps towards her car, clinging to the door like it was the last buoy in the Pacific when he finally made it. He dropped into the seat and fumbled with the seat belt until she’d had enough and did it up for him.
“Do you even know what time it is?” she asked as she pulled back out of the parking lot and started to make her way home.
“No,” he admitted, trying to look at his watch in the dim light of her car and failing. She tapped the display on her dashboard.
03.27
“Shit. Sorry. Andy’s fault.” He slouched down in the seat; it was much more comfortable than the bench, and her car was much warmer too. He could feel sleep luring him in again.
“Andy’s fault?” she asked, “Aren’t you a little old to be blaming your friends for getting you drunk?”
“Was his fault,” he mumbled sleepily. “Guinesson’s.”
“What?” she asked, “What is that?”
“Guinness, with Jamesons.”
He smiled. The first few had been amazing and he’d clapped the bartender on the back, declaring him a genius, but once he’d hit his normal limit and realised he was hammered; he’d quickly changed his opinion on the wonder drink.
“Like a chaser?” she asked, obviously not really caring, just trying to keep him awake until they got home so she wouldn’t have to drag his dead weight out of the car.
“No,” he stretched out a yawn. Maybe she was right; maybe he really was too old for this. “In the same glass.”
She snorted, “No wonder you’re wasted. Do you remember calling Daniel about an hour ago?”
He sat up a little straighter, “Uh...no.”
She laughed, “He’s gonna kill you in the morning.” She seemed much too happy about that and he was positive she had her own punishment planned too. Well, if he was going to get in trouble anyway...
He searched in his pocket for his phone, finally finding it and lighting up the car with the display light. She hissed at him not to, but he shrugged her off, scrolling down to Daniel’s name and pressing the call button. Daniel answered, groggy with sleep and Jack immediately started singing.
“Ohhhhhh Danny boy....” and he laughed at the twin groans he heard from them.