This Nest of Sparrows
By Charli Booker - charli.booker@netzero.com


                         *******************

INCLUDES: This Nest of Sparrows - Spirits
          This Nest of Sparrows - The Fifth Race
          This Nest of Sparrows - A Matter of Time
          This Nest of Sparrows - Holiday
          This Nest of Sparrows - One False Step
          This Nest of Sparrows - Show and Tell
          This Nest of Sparrows - 1969
          This Nest of Sparrows - Out of Mind & Into the Fire

                         *******************


This Nest of Sparrows - Spirits
By Charli Booker - charli.booker@netzero.com


RATING: FR-T

WARNINGS: A teeny, tiny bit of potty-mouth 

CATEGORY: Drama, Humor

PAIRING: Maybe in her dreams....

SPOILERS: None

TIME FRAME: Season 2

SUMMARY: From the moment Millie Guthro stepped through the portal, she 
entered into a whole new world...the World According to Jack.

DISCLAIMER: 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.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to Jude, my buddy and my beta.  This story was 
inspired by a friend who cleans houses for a living.  Listening to her 
discuss some of her more interesting clientele, I couldn=t help but 
wonder just what it would be like to clean Jack=s house.  This particular 
scenario takes place around Spirits.  Who knows, maybe there=ll be more 
to come....

                         *******************

I watch, and am become like a sparrow that is alone upon the house-top. 
     ~ Psalms 102:7

The best measure of a man's honesty isn't his income tax return.

It's the zero adjust on his bathroom scale. Arthur C. Clarke

Millie Guthro was a little too short, a little too thin, and a lot too 
opinionated. She was also a sucker for a man in a uniform. Oh, and she 
needed a job. She was down to her last five hundred dollars in savings, 
the ink in her checking account was seriously leaning towards the red, 
and her rent was due in just over two weeks.

If Millie had believed in luck, she would have thought it was her lucky 
day. But she didn't . . . believe in luck, that is. Luck was for those 
who had it in spades - whether it be good or bad. Millie fell somewhere 
in the middle of Luck Road. In all her years, and despite becoming 
recently unemployed, she really didn't have a lot to complain about. Then 
again, so far life hadn't been anything to write home about either. And 
after thirty-seven years, a person really should have *something* to 
write home about.

So, while she couldn't say for sure what it was that made her drop in at 
the Rocky Top Pit Stop, Millie knew it wasn't luck. Mostly, she supposed 
it was a craving for salt and vinegar potato chips. That, and a deep-
rooted desire to watch Connie Blankenship bag her groceries. Millie and 
Connie had grown up together, and while Millie had lived her average, 
nothing-to-write-home-about teenage life, Connie had been the girl that 
all the other girls wished they were: cheerleader, homecoming queen 
candidate for three years running, and dater of quarterbacks. Now, Connie 
had three ex-husbands, drank like a fish, bagged groceries for a living, 
and picked her nose when she thought no one was looking. It gave Millie a 
feeling of satisfaction to be asked by the `popular girl' if she wanted 
paper or plastic. It didn't even matter that Connie didn't remember her, 
or that Millie was compelled to wipe down all her fresh fruit and canned 
goods because of Ms. Booger Fingers.

Having made her purchases, and having decided to go with plastic, Millie 
pocketed her change. Reminding herself to wash up before touching any 
part of her own anatomy, she almost missed the index card tacked to the 
bulletin board next to the exit. In fact, she would have missed it 
entirely if she hadn't stopped to read a bright green sheet of paper 
proclaiming that next week was `All Things Soy At Rocky Top Pit Stop.' 
Wondering what exactly management thought to gain by hawking soy products 
for a week, Millie's gaze drifted over the small corkboard. Nearly hidden 
under a layer of business cards and photographs of lost pets, she saw it: 
an innocuous, unlined, three-by-five card covered with handwriting that 
wouldn't pass muster with any grade school teacher worth her salt:

Needed: Housekeeper. Light cooking,

laundry, and cleaning. Nothing kinky.

Neat-freaks and wacko's need not apply.

It was signed simply `J. O'Neill,' followed by a local telephone number. 
Laughing softly, Millie slipped the card into the same pocket as her 
change.

                         *******************

Two days later, she was standing on the front step ringing the doorbell 
on a neat house sitting at the end of a neat street just two miles from 
the Pit Stop and a little less than that from her apartment. She glanced 
at the flowers lining the front walk and stared at the large pick-up 
parked in the driveway. Truth be told, the place wasn't what she'd 
expected. Millie had never been a `housekeeper' in her life - not 
officially anyway - but she'd always assumed they were hired by rich 
folks who lived in houses that were much too large to be practical. She'd 
never thought about someone needing a housekeeper for a place that looked 
so . . . well, average. In fact, she couldn't help feeling a bit 
disappointed.

That is, until the door opened and Millie found herself face to face - 
well, more like face to pecs, with a full-blown, too-handsome-for-words, 
long, lean military machine. Her dream date. . . complete with all the 
bells and whistles in the form of neatly pressed dress blues and a chest 
full of ribbons and medals.

There was a God. And, apparently, He'd decided to make up for lost time.

J. O'Neill smiled. He might as well have kicked her in the stomach. In 
fact, a kick would have been less painful.

"Are you Millie?"

Was she? She had been when she'd left her apartment. She had I.D. Maybe 
she should check. Maybe her little trip down Twilight Zone Lane had 
miraculously transformed her into Popular Girl and this was Officer 
Quarterback. Actually, she did feel the urge to do a bit of cheerleading. 
And a handspring wasn't completely out of the question.

"Um," J. O'Neill frowned and a long-fingered hand came up to briefly 
touch his thin lips in what looked like a nervous gesture.

Suddenly seized with the fear of a door slamming in her mute face, she 
smiled. "Millie Guthro. And you are . . . J. O'Neill?" She wasn't sure 
why she glanced at the crumpled index card when she said it, and she was 
as surprised as he was that her words were delivered with a distinctly 
British accent. For God's sake, she was born and raised here in the 
Springs; her folks had immigrated from Hutchinson, Kansas.

He held out the same hand that had touched those thin lips. "Nice to meet 
you, Millie. I'm Jack." His large hand engulfed her own before motioning 
her inside. "Come on in."

She did, glancing around the tidy home as she followed him down into a 
small, airy living room.

"Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Water, beer. I think I 
saw a soda in the fridge, although I wouldn't swear to its expiration 
date."

"No, thank you." Despite being dressed in jeans and an Hawaiian shirt, 
British Millie sat on the sofa with picture-perfect posture.

"Sorry. I don't have tea," he smiled again as he sat down across from 
her. "I've been . . . out of town. Haven't had a chance to shop for a 
while."

"Really. I'm fine."

"Okay." Jack picked up a beer from a small side table, started to swig 
it, then glanced at her and set it back down. "Um, well, I'm not really 
sure how all this works. Maybe I should . . .," he glanced at her and 
grimaced slightly as if extremely uncomfortable.

"Well," Millie set her purse on the floor beside the sofa and smiled, 
"you should probably ask me for references, job history, things like 
that."

"Oh, yeah. Good idea. Sorry, it's just . . . this whole thing was 
Daniel's doing."

"Daniel?"

"My . . . co-worker. The guy you spoke to on the phone yesterday. He 
thinks I need help around here. And Carter agrees. What can I say?" He 
shrugged. "Anyway, uh, you want to tell me about your last job?"

"Well, up until three weeks ago, I was employed by one of the largest 
legal firms in town."

"You cleaned their offices?"

"No. Legal secretary."

"Oh." He looked slightly taken aback. "What? You decided to make a career 
change?"

"Yes, at the moment that I finally realized working for an ass is not all 
it's cracked up to be." Millie smiled at the sound of her own voice. For 
some reason smart-ass just sounded so much more . . . indisputable when 
delivered with a British accent. She should have done this years ago.

Jack laughed pleasantly and took a small swallow of beer. "So, have you 
ever been a housekeeper before?"

"Just for myself." Remembering the job requirements he'd listed, Millie 
added, "I'm not a slob, but I'm no neat freak."

He smiled at the reference. "Wack-o?"

"A little bit . . . up until three weeks ago. I seem to have made a 
miraculous recovery and am feeling much better now."

He laughed again.

"May I be perfectly honest with you, Jack?" Well, maybe not perfectly. 
She *was* still doing the British thing, after all.

"I'd prefer it, actually."

"Well, I'm no Martha Stewart, but I can cook a decent pot roast and I 
make a coconut cream pie that's guaranteed to curl your toes. Grocery 
shopping, cleaning house, doing the laundry, taking out the trash . . . I 
think I can handle it. It's not exactly rocket science. And I need the 
money."

He quietly studied her and Millie, who prided herself on reading people, 
had absolutely no idea what was going through his mind.

"I'm gone a lot. Usually without any advance notice. I'd like to have 
someone come in a couple of days a week. When I'm in town, a home-cooked 
meal or two and some clean underwear would be nice. When I'm gone, then 
it'd just be tidying up and making the place look lived in. Do you do 
yard work?"

Millie glanced out the large windows at the backyard. The fence row was 
lined with rose bushes . . . the only flower she knew of that she 
actually hated. "I don't like thorns." She looked back at the handsome 
officer. "Or bees."

"Meaning . . ."

"Meaning, it will cost you."

                         *******************

Millie quickly settled into a routine. Saturdays were spent doing her own 
chores and errands. Sundays, Mondays and Wednesdays she worked at the 
downtown library, shelving books. Thursdays were her day off. She spent 
Thursdays lounging on the couch until mid-morning, then she drifted down 
to the local bookstore where she stuck her nose in a book and glued her 
lips to a tall cup of white chocolate mocha - skinny, no whip. She ended 
the day with a long walk, followed by an evening of old movies. Tuesdays 
and Fridays were spent at Jack's. It was a mostly solitary existence, but 
Millie found she enjoyed the company. After all, no one listened to her 
quite like she did.

Since their initial meeting nearly six weeks previous, Millie had not 
seen Jack. But the proof of his existence was scattered on the floor of 
his master bath and was strewn across his kitchen counter. She'd come 
close to seeing him once. She knew because the towel she swept off the 
side of the tub was still wet and the heady scent of aftershave and 
coffee left her weak in the knees.

Cleaning up after Jack wasn't a hard job. In fact, it was mostly easy 
money. The guy might have advertised that he didn't want a neat-freak, 
but Millie suspected it was because he leaned that way himself. Either 
that or he straightened up before she got there. In any event, the bed 
was always made to perfection and picking up usually consisted of nothing 
more than throwing into the laundry any damp towels and dirty clothes 
that had missed the hamper. He was even tidy in the bathroom. Good grief, 
the man even left the toilet seat down. 

In fact, to date, the only flaw she'd detected in his otherwise 
meticulous housekeeping skills seemed to lie with the kitchen. In the 
kitchen, the man was an absolute pig. Her first day on the job, she'd 
spent an hour or so picking up and starting the laundry, then she'd found 
the cleaning supplies and had dusted, mopped and run the vacuum. Three 
hours after she'd arrived, she'd patted herself on the back for a job 
well done and had moved off to the kitchen to cook up a few meals to 
stash in the fridge.

On the kitchen's surface, nothing untoward had caught her eye. But the 
moment she'd opened the refrigerator, Millie had realized that life as 
she knew it was officially over. Holy Toledo, the stuff in there could 
have put an eye out. In fact, she would have sworn that the slight rash 
that appeared on her wrist two days later was some kind of weird chemical 
burn from the contents of one swollen, leaking bowl of Tupperware. It 
probably hadn't helped that she'd watched 'Silkwood' the week before.

Gagging and coughing, feeling a bit like Meryl Streep, Millie had run to 
the sink and leaned over it, trying to recall the last time she'd 
actually hurled. She couldn't remember. But she had a feeling this moment 
would stick in her mind for many years to come. The next time she was 
haunted with a vision of stripping Jack naked and throwing him down on 
his neatly made bed, all it would take to clear her head would be one 
refrigerated flashback. There wasn't a cold shower in the world that 
could beat it.

Regaining control of herself, Millie had stumbled into the garage and 
returned with a roll of heavy duty garbage bags and an over-sized pair of 
work gloves. Restoring the kitchen to a reasonable facsimile of the room 
it was meant to be took just under four hours. Exhausted and slightly 
disturbed at the images replaying through her mind, Millie had left a 
note telling Jack that if he left money she'd restock the fridge on her 
next scheduled day.

When she'd returned three days later, on the dining room table was an 
envelope with her pay, plus a hundred dollars cash and a note:

M: I like Dos Equis and Fruit Loops.

Thanks...J

P.S.: Sorry about the fridge. Been meaning to get to it.

At the end of the day, Jack had a refrigerator stocked with Dos Equis, 
milk, eggs, bacon and a large bowl of homemade stew. Millie shoved a box 
of Fruit Loops on the shelf with a post-it note stuck to the front:

J: There are bagels, butter and juice in the fridge.

Please eat them. You're too skinny....M

P.S.: Guess you found your change. I kept $5 - consider it hazard pay.

And so the tone of their relationship was set, and Millie often found 
herself humming as she organized the house that Jack sometimes lived in. 
Actually, a house he lived in way too seldom as far as she was concerned, 
because he'd been right about his absences . . . he was gone a lot.

There were some weeks where she could tell he hadn't been there at all. 
The last time it happened, he was gone for over eleven days. As the due 
date on her rent approached, Millie had fussed and worried over what to 
do. She liked Jack. Well, she never saw him, but she liked keeping house 
for him. Unfortunately, she worked for a reason: she needed the money. 
For over a week, she struggled to reach a decision. But when the final 
figures were tallied, she needed the money more than she needed to work 
for a man who was in absentia. So, she made one final trip to his house. 
She'd dust and toss out the meal she'd left on Tuesday, then leave him a 
note on where to mail the money he owed her.

As soon as she arrived she knew he'd been there. On the table was a small 
box of Rocky Mountain Chocolates, an envelope with all her pay plus a 
fifty dollar tip, and a note:

M: I am SO sorry. Something came up.

I've made arrangements so it won't happen again.

But if it does, call this number and ask for Janet...J

P.S.: Hope you like chocolate.

That had been last Friday, a week ago today. Smiling to herself at the 
thought of anyone not liking chocolate, Millie slipped the key in the 
lock and let herself in. She took the bag of groceries straight to the 
kitchen and set them on the counter. Today's special: meatloaf and twice 
baked potatoes that he could warm in the oven. It was one of Jack's 
favorites. Anyway, she assumed it was. Last time she'd made it, he'd 
eaten all of it and left her a bottle of expensive wine as a tip. Yeah, 
she was liking this guy more all the time. Her former employer *never* 
tipped, let alone in the form of chocolate and booze.

"Hello."

"Shit!" Her heart leaping into her throat, Millie swung around, wielding 
an Idaho spud like a short, blunt dagger. Another potato rolled off the 
counter, dropped onto the floor and wobbled across the kitchen, stopping 
when it hit the toe of a worn leather hiking boot.

"Oh my God. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

The young man standing just inside the kitchen doorway looked more like a 
geeky archaeologist than a criminal, although Millie knew for a fact that 
criminals came in all shapes and sizes. Maybe this long-haired, blue-
eyed, kinda-cute-in-a-dweebish-sort-of-way guy was here to steal Jack's 
collection of National Geographics . . . the ones she'd found stashed in 
the back of his closet. Not quite as tall as she remembered Jack being, 
this guy was fair skinned. He obviously didn't get out much.

Smiling shyly, the man stooped to pick up the potato, then took three 
steps towards her and stretched out his arm, tentatively depositing the 
spud on the kitchen counter.

"I'm Daniel. Daniel Jackson. You must be Jack's housekeeper. I've 
forgotten your name."

"Mil-," she swallowed, and tried to hide her trembling. "Millie."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Millie. We spoke on the phone."

"Oh." So this was the Daniel who'd thought Jack needed a housekeeper? 
Well, as far as she was concerned, any debt she owed him for that had 
just been cancelled out by scaring the crap out of her.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah . . . no. Well . . . maybe. I think I may have wet myself."

Daniel barked a laugh and shook his head. "I see now why Jack likes you."

Jack *likes* me? Millie's heart, still racing over the threat of imminent 
death or rape, picked up the pace. Down girl!

"He's upstairs, by the way. He'll be down in a minute." Daniel frowned 
slightly. "I thought Jack said you were from England."

"She is."

Millie jumped again as Jack suddenly stepped into the kitchen.

"Hello." He smiled, waved, then frowned, his gaze moving to her hands.

Millie looked down to find she was still in Idaho defense mode. "Oh. Uh . 
. .," looking around, she finally placed the potato on the counter next 
to its siblings.

"Daniel, what are you doing to my housekeeper?"

"Nothing. Just introducing myself."

His right arm in a sling, Jack held his bad arm with his good and frowned 
at Daniel. "Then why does she look like she's seen a ghost?"

"Because he scared the pee-waddin' out of me."

Both men turned to stare at her.

What?

Jack's left arm dropped to his side and one eyebrow rose. "The pee-
waddin'?"

Wondering just what she'd done wrong, Millie nodded.

"Just whereabouts in England are you from?"

Oh, good grief. She'd forgotten all about being British. Millie laughed 
softly. "Uh, yeah, Jack, about that . . ."

He sighed softly. "Yes?"

"Well, see, I was . . . I was a bit nervous."

                         *******************

Millie watched as Jack scooted his chair back and stretched out his long 
legs. On the table in front of him was an empty plate. He patted his 
stomach with his one good hand and belched softly.

His cheeks reddening, he glanced at her. "Sorry. Compliments to the 
chef."

"Does that mean I'm forgiven?"

"For not being from England?"

"No. For lying about being from England."

He shrugged, then smiled. "Question is, do you always resort to a British 
accent when you're nervous? And if so," he glanced at Daniel, "what, is 
that some kind of primordial defense mechanism? Dr. Jackson?"

Daniel froze in the midst of taking his last bite of coconut cream pie. 
"Hmm?" He looked at both of them, shoved the last forkful into his mouth, 
and spoke around the confection. "This is the . . . besht pie . . . I've 
ever had." He laid down his fork and groaned as he swallowed the final 
bite. "Oh my God. Teal-uh, Murray has got to try this."

Jack shook his head at his colleague and turned back to Millie. "So, why 
were you so nervous anyway?"

"Um," Millie felt her own cheeks reddening as she tried not to look at 
the long, jean-clad legs and the form-fitting, black t-shirt. "More pie, 
Daniel?" She jumped up from the table before either of them could respond 
and headed for the kitchen.

"What?" Jack yelled after her.

She began wrapping up the leftover meatloaf and potatoes.

"What?"

She jumped and spun at the sound of Jack's voice, coming from not more 
than three feet away.

He grinned, an evil little smirk that seemed to transform him into an 
overgrown, ten-year old brat. "Millie . . . do I make you nervous?"

"No. No." She turned back around and began wrestling with a sheet of 
plastic wrap. "You certainly do not make me nervous. Not at all." 
Refrigerator. Refrigerator. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was 
still standing there. Still smirking. Still wearing that damnable tshirt 
and those ass-grabbing jeans. "That's absurd."

"Yes. It is."

She glanced at him again. Refrigerator. Swollen Tupperware. "So . .. what 
happened to your arm, Jack?"

He immediately stopped smiling and sauntered over to the aforesaid 
appliance and peered inside. "Training accident."

"Training accident? What do you do anyway? I mean, I know you're Air 
Force . . ."

"Deepspace Radar Telemetry."

"Yecht." Millie made a face and stuck out her tongue. Jack snagged a beer 
from the fridge and turned back to her, smiling again. "Sorry, but with 
the exception of training accidents, that sounds very boring."

He laughed softly. "You'd be surprised. Progress can be extremely .. . 
well, not boring."

"Oh, speaking of progress . . .," Millie opened the junk drawer and 
handed Jack a slip of paper. "When I threw in a load of clothes earlier, 
I came across this in one of your pockets. I thought it might be 
important."

Jack glanced down at the piece of paper that contained his scrawling 
handwriting: `Usually, terrible things that are done with the excuse that 
progress requires them are not really progress at all, but just terrible 
things. Russell Baker.'

He frowned and slid the paper into the pocket of his jeans. "Yeah. It is. 
Thanks."

"Too true, huh?"

He looked up as if surprised to see her there. "What?"

Millie nodded towards his pocket. "You know, about how when you boil it 
down, terrible things are really nothing more than just terrible things."

Jack stared at her, through her, then blinked and rubbed his injured arm 
with his good hand. "Yeah. Progress."

She frowned over at him. He suddenly looked pale and worn out. "You 
okay?"

Jack flinched. A few seconds later, his gaze re-focused on her. "I'm 
fine. All those . . . training exercises wear me out. Think I'll hit the 
sack."

"Sure." Millie turned back to cleaning up the kitchen. "I'm about 
finished. Then I'll head out."

"Okay." He walked away then stopped and looked back at her. "Hey, Brit." 
When she glanced at him, he smiled tiredly. "You were right." At her 
blank look, he continued. "About the pie. My toes did curl."

He disappeared into the other room, leaving Millie staring after him.

Refrigerator . . . leaky Tupperware . . . Silkwood . . .

The End

                         *******************

This Nest of Sparrows - The Fifth Race
By Charli Booker - charli.booker@netzero.com


RATING: FR-T

WARNINGS: A teeny, tiny bit of potty-mouth 

CATEGORY: Drama, Humor, Hurt/Comfort

PAIRING: Maybe in her dreams....

SPOILERS: None

TIME FRAME: Season 2.  #2 in The Sparrows Series

SUMMARY: The continuing saga of Millie Guthro and the World According to 
Jack.

DISCLAIMER: 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.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to Jude, my buddy and my beta.  A special thanks 
to each of you who wrote requesting more of Millie B the woman who is any 
one of us.  This story is for you.


                         *******************

I watch, and am become like a sparrow that is alone upon the house-top. 
Psalms 102:7

The best measure of a man's honesty isn't his income tax return.

It's the zero adjust on his bathroom scale. Arthur C. Clarke

                         *******************

Millie Guthro cursed at the ringing of the telephone and rolled off the 
sofa with a groan. Dammit! Who in the hell had the audacity to call her 
at 8:42 a.m. on her day off? If he knew what was good for him, it 
wouldn't be a salesman.

"What?" Okay, so she sounded pissed. There was a reason for that: she 
was.

"Millie, you're good at lying, right?"

What the hell? Her anger was immediately forgotten. Daniel? It sounded 
like Daniel, Jack's co-worker.

"Who's calling?"

"Oh. I'm sorry. It's me, Daniel. Daniel Jackson. Jack's friend."

Millie couldn't help herself. "One moment, please." She pulled the phone 
away from her ear and covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "Millie, it's 
for you! Some guy named Daniel." She paused, counting to five. "He says 
he's Jack's friend." While counting to ten, she glanced across the room 
at the 19-inch television perched on a second-hand chest. John Boy 
Walton, the aspiring author, was sitting in front of an open window, 
scribbling with a fat pencil in an Indian Chief tablet. Fiction: proper 
lies in organized form. So, she was no worse than John Boy. Millie 
uncovered the phone and put the receiver back up to her ear, panting 
slightly. "Daniel?"

"Millie? I'm sorry. Geesh. Please apologize to your friend for me. I 
thought it was you. You sound alike."

"Yeah, we get that a lot. What's going on?"

"You're good at lying, right?"

Obviously. "Lying?"

"Yeah. We need . . . see, Jack's a bit under the weather."

Frowning, Millie hit a button on the remote and John Boy winked into non-
existence. "Is he hurt again or something?"

"Yes. No. Well, I can't . . . it's a long story. Suffice to say, he's not 
feeling too well."

Suffice to say? "Can you be more specific?"

"No. Not really. But we need a favor."

"We?"

"Uh, me and Carter and Te-Murray."

Oh, well, that cleared it right up. "What kind of favor?"

"Jack insists on going home from the infirmary. Says he's fine and 
doesn't want any of us hanging around. I thought maybe you could . .."

"What? Kiss it and make it better?" Good grief! Did she really say that 
out loud? Millie blushed, picturing Jack tossing and turning on the bed 
in a fever-induced delirium as she struggled to plant one on him. Okay, 
time to drag out Old Faithful. Millie shut her eyes, concentrating on 
dredging up the not-so-fond memory of Jack's rotting-from-the-inside-out 
refrigerator. Nope. Didn't work. She had obviously become immune to its 
effects due to overuse; it no longer held the necessary shock value and 
visions of Jack continued to dance in her head.

"We thought maybe you could figure out a way to spend the day over at his 
house. You know, kind of keep an eye on him for us."

Keep an eye on Jack? She had to admit there were worse ways to spend her 
day off. The guy had a hell of a lot more going for him than John Boy 
Walton, that was for sure. "And the reason none of you can do it?"

"He says we're mother-hens. Besides, you have no idea how Jack can be 
when he's sick."

"And this is supposed to encourage me to say yes?" Daniel didn't respond. 
"Okay, so why do you suppose he'd let me hang around and not you guys?"

"Well, I'm not sure he will, but I don't think he'll be so bold as to 
actually throw you out. Us? Different story entirely. And I thought, what 
with the English accent thing, you could probably come up with a 
plausible reason to be there . . . other than to play nurse."

Millie chewed her lip, trying not to dwell on `playing nurse' with Jack, 
and glanced around her small apartment.

"If it's about your friend . . ."

"No. No, she was just getting ready to leave." Her hesitation was more 
about her `friend's' overwhelming desire to jump Jack's bones and the 
thought of being cooped up in a house alone with him for an entire day . 
. . especially if the man were vulnerable. Come on, Millie, show some 
restraint. It's for a good cause. "Well, okay, but I suppose you should 
give me a number where I can reach you in case he does kick me out, or 
fire me, or whatever."

She heard Daniel sigh in relief. "Thank you, Millie. We owe you one."

"Coffee. You owe me coffee. And not the cheap stuff. Something good."

                         *******************

Millie propped her bicycle against the side of Jack's garage. No sign of 
his truck in the driveway. Sweating, her fingers trembling slightly, she 
slipped her key in the lock and opened the front door. Daniel had said 
Jack would be home around noon. It was 1:15 p.m. She'd tried to time it 
so her appearance would look unplanned . . . hopefully. She glanced down 
at her tshirt, cutoffs and sneakers. Unplanned. Right. Between the time 
she'd hung up from talking to Daniel to when she'd left her apartment, 
she'd changed four times .. . for a sick guy who was way out of her 
league, totally uninterested, and who would probably just kick her out 
anyway. God, she was pathetic. She really needed to get a life.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the foyer. The house was cool 
and on the surface appeared to be unoccupied. Sunlight filtered in 
through the numerous windows, but all the lights were off and silence 
prevailed. She looked in the living room. Empty. She headed for the 
master bedroom. She'd check to see if he was sleeping; if so, then she'd 
slip outside and do a bit of yard work.

The bedroom door stood open. Her heart rapidly hammering against the back 
side of her rib cage, Millie peeked around the doorframe. The drapes had 
been drawn but the bathroom light cast a soft, artificial glow over the 
room. She felt a fine sheen of sweat break out on her upper lip as she 
stared at the room's sole occupant.

Jack lay sprawled on his stomach across the middle of the bed, arms and 
legs flung out. One hand and both feet dangled off the sides of the bed. 
His head was turned towards her. His eyes were closed, and she could see 
his torso expanding and contracting as he breathed in a deep, steady 
rhythm. The ceiling fan over the bed whirred softly and she watched, 
mesmerized, as a tuft of brownish-grey hair caught in the gentle stir of 
the air and danced over his high forehead.

Millie studied the long limbs and the lean, muscled back. Criminantly! 
Even the blonde peach-fuzz on the backs of his calves was cute. And to 
make matters worse - or better, depending on your viewpoint - the guy was 
tan all over. Well, she assumed all over. After all, he *was* wearing 
boxers. Boxers that looked like they had .. . she squinted. She couldn't 
tell for sure from this distance, and she didn't trust herself to step 
any closer, but she'd swear Jack had on 'Simpsons' boxers.

Smothering a giggle, Millie turned and headed back down the hallway. 
Great. She'd never again hear the name `Homer' without picturing a 
certain tanned, fit, sexy Air Force officer wearing cartoon undies under 
his dress blues.

                         *******************

"Shit!"

Millie stuck her thumb in her mouth, then spat out dirt and the Good Lord 
only knew what else. Her luck, Jack used manure on his flower beds. 
Spitting again for good measure, she studied the small drop of blood 
beading up on the pad of her thumb.

She really did hate roses. What was the point anyway? Why surround 
yourself with something just because it was beautiful, especially when 
you knew you were only going to get hurt by it in the end. As far as she 
was concerned, roses were no better than trophy wives. All looks and no 
substance. Floral trophy wives, complete with bees and thorns . . . two 
things not high on her list of favorite things in the world. Speaking of 
which, she ducked and swatted at a large bee.

Squatting down beside the fence row, Millie returned to her work. The 
mid-afternoon sun was hot and sweat dripped down her back, between her 
shoulder blades. She wiggled, trying to relieve the tickle. Losing her 
precarious balance, she toppled over onto her butt, dropping the small 
trowel and banging her elbow on a rock.

"Having fun?"

Startled, she turned to find Jack leaning back in a deck chair, sipping 
on a beer and watching her.

"What do you think?" Huffing softly, she sat up, then turned back around 
and pulled out a handful of weeds, tossing them over the fence and 
wondering how long he'd been sitting there staring at her backside.

"Need I ask how much this is going to cost me?"

She ignored him. At least he was dressed . . . albeit in khaki-colored 
cargo pants which, in her humble opinion, could give an orangutan a butt 
to die for. And thank God the tight black tshirt wasn't in attendance, 
having been traded in on a loose-fitting shirt.

"What are you doing here anyway?"

"What's it look like I'm doing here?" She tossed another weed over the 
fence.

"You know, you were more pleasant when you were British."

Hiding a grin, Millie glanced back at him. He held up a second, unopened 
beer in invitation. Sighing, wiping her sweaty forehead on the sleeve of 
her tshirt, Millie clambered to her feet and walked over to the deck. 
Taking the beer from him, she sat down on the top step and took a small 
swallow. She didn't care for Dos Equis, but at least it was cold.

"So . . . what *are* you doing here? Isn't it your day off?"

"Would you believe me if I said, a woman's work is never done?"

Jack snorted softly. "Oh, please." There was a slight pause, then, "Did 
Daniel send you?"

"Daniel?" Smiling, Millie looked at him. He was pale and despite the long 
nap, he looked exhausted. "Honestly, do I look like Daniel is the boss of 
me?"

He smiled and sipped his beer, his hand trembling slightly. "I don't 
think anyone is the boss of you, Millie."

"Not even you?"

"Especially not me."

Millie took another swig of her beer and looked out over the yard. "Why 
roses? Why not . . . daisies? Daisies are harmless."

"Daisies are glorified weeds."

"So? Who gets to say what's a weed and what's a flower?"

"It's my yard. I get to say." He sounded angry.

"Okay. Fair enough. Roses it is."

"You never answered my question. Why are you here on your day off?"

Millie looked down at the drink in her hand. The glass was sweating just 
like her, but the bottle was more shapely and she suspected its contents 
left a less bitter aftertaste. She picked at the label. "My upstairs 
neighbor died. Mr. Howard. He was dead for eight days before anyone in 
the building even realized. And then it wasn't because anyone missed him. 
It was the smell."

It wasn't a lie. It had happened last month and it still bothered her. "I 
think . . ." Millie stopped to clear her throat of a hard lump that had 
suddenly, unexpectedly lodged there. "I think that's real sad, Jack."

"Yeah," he softly agreed. "Yeah, it is. Real sad." They settled into an 
easy silence broken finally by the groan of Jack's chair as he shifted 
his weight. "So, are you okay?"

Millie shrugged and squinted up at him. "I'm fine. It's just that it sort 
of creeps me out sometimes."

"Sometimes." Looking like he seriously needed to crawl back into the bed 
he'd just crawled out of, Jack studied her face. "Sometimes like today?"

She smiled. "Why don't I make us some lunch. You hungry?" She stood up 
and started inside the house, but a hand on her wrist stopped her. Aside 
from their initial handshake months ago, it was the only time they'd ever 
touched and Millie was shocked by the coolness and the softness of his 
hand on her skin.

"You know, Millie, the only power that the dead hold is the power you 
give them."

He was right. She knew that. "Yeah. I know. So, what'll it be, Jack? 
Tuna? Chicken salad? I make a mean grilled cheese."

                         *******************

A noise woke her. She was curled up in an uncomfortably small knot with 
something hard and unforgiving pressed up against the back of her neck, 
and she had absolutely no idea where she was. Groaning softly, rubbing 
her stiff neck, Millie sat up and looked around. The room was lit with a 
weird, bluish light. She followed the source to a large television 
displaying the multi-colored bars of a station gone off the air.

Crap. She'd fallen asleep at Jack's house. More specifically, she'd 
fallen asleep in the armchair in Jack's living room. Glancing across the 
room, she saw him stretched out on the sofa, facing away from her with 
his left arm slung up over the back of the couch.

After a light lunch that Jack had left mostly untouched, they'd lounged 
in the living room watching an 'ER' marathon. Twenty minutes into the 
first episode, Jack had started with the Elizabeth Corday jokes. He'd 
begun by surmising that Millie was Dr. Corday in disguise and that she'd 
quit speaking with a British accent just to throw people off. Then with 
the questions: Why had she quit perming her hair? For that matter, why 
had she cut it? Was she falling for Dr. Benton? And why? The guy was 
acting like a complete jerk. Why did she look so much shorter in person? 
How did she keep her smocks so white? Was it a special type of bleach 
used only by hospitals?

It had been cute for the first two and a half hours. Then it grew 
tiresome. Her only respite was when Jack dozed. She'd turned down the 
sound on the television and had escaped into the guest bathroom. Running 
a sink full of warm water, she'd scrubbed away the sweat and the dirt, 
and had tried to convince herself that she was not an unwitting cast 
member of the movie 'Big.' Jack was not, in fact, a child thrown by a 
freakish accident into the body of a man.

Yeah. Right.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Little Boy Man was sitting at the 
dining room table, talking to someone on the telephone. He nodded at her 
as she passed by him and went into the kitchen to grab a soda.

"No, Carter. I do not need you guys to come over. No. I'm absolutely 
fine. Yes. I swear. Anyway, I have company." Millie walked by again on 
her way out of the kitchen and Jack smiled. "Corday is here. My friend, 
Corday. No, you may not speak to him to make sure he's a real person. 
Besides, he is a she." Jack chuckled softly. "Carter, I really think we'd 
prefer to be alone, if you know what I mean."

Curled up in the armchair, Millie flushed and choked on her soda.

"Carter. Carter! You can quit laughing now. No. It wasn't a joke." Jack 
sighed deeply. "Honestly? No. I'd rather you didn't. I'm . . . I'm kind 
of tired. I think I'm going to go to bed early tonight. Ha. Ha. Very 
funny. Yeah. Okay. I'll see you tomorrow then. Yes. I'll convey the 
message. Goodnight."

A few minutes later, Jack joined her in the living room. "Carter says 
`hey.'" He picked up the remote. "You like baseball?"

Despite the fact that she really didn't, Millie nodded, suddenly 
wondering what the hell she was doing here. The house and belongings she 
knew like they were her own; their owner, on the other hand, was a 
virtual stranger. Jack hadn't complained about her presence, but he 
certainly hadn't extended an invitation. He was probably just being nice; 
hated to say anything to hurt her feelings. She glanced over, watching 
him flip through the channels. Daniel had said Jack wasn't well, but to 
Millie, he simply looked tired. Other than catching him repeatedly 
rubbing his left temple, it looked like the man just needed some serious 
sack time.

"You know," she stood up, "I should probably get going."

"Why?"

Millie stared at him, puzzled at the almost desperate tone in his voice. 
Maybe he didn't want to be alone. Or maybe he really did enjoy her 
company. Or maybe he just felt sorry for her and wouldn't ask her to go 
home to an apartment haunted by dead neighbors.

"Why go? We can watch the game together. I'll order pizza."

"It's getting late. I hate biking home in the dark."

He waved her back to her chair. "I can drive you later. Sit down. You 
like pizza, right?"

Feeling numb, Millie dropped back to the chair, nodding. "Yeah. I like 
pizza."

"Good."

And so they'd eaten pizza and watched a ball game. Or, more accurately, 
he'd pretended to eat pizza while she'd pretended to watch the game. It 
was basically a draw as to which of them was fooling the other. 
Personally, Millie thought they'd both failed miserably. The last thing 
she clearly remembered was trying to get comfortable in the armchair and 
murmuring agreement when Jack declared the third base umpire a complete 
ass. Judging by the state of her neck and the television in the corner, 
that had been several hours ago.

So . . . Millie Guthro had technically spent the night with Jack O'Neill. 
Yawning, she couldn't help but grin. She had a sudden urge to go grocery 
shopping and wondered what Ms. Booger Fingers Blankenship, the local bag 
queen, would think if she could see Millie now.

Jack groaned and mumbled something in a language Millie didn't recognize. 
Still sitting in the armchair, she stopped rubbing her neck and stared at 
him. Suddenly, he yelled, his body jerking. Shit! He was obviously deep 
in the throes of some nightmare. Her heart racing, Millie hurried to the 
couch.

"Jack." She sank down next to the sofa and laid a hand on his shoulder. 
He was sweating and his entire body was trembling. "Jack." He moaned and 
mumbled something that resembled the legal jargon that until a few months 
ago had been a big part of her life. She gently shook him. "Jack, wake 
up."

If Millie Guthro had kept a journal, the next moment would certainly have 
gone into it . . . in crisp, uppercase letters, underlined, and 
highlighted with one of those fluorescent markers - bright yellow or lime 
green. One moment she was kneeling beside Jack wondering if the words 
spewing out of his mouth were brought on by fevered delirium, and the 
next moment something hard slammed into her face, flinging her backwards 
through the air.

With a soft grunt, her spine connected with the coffee table. She felt 
herself go limp, and sagged forward and to the side. Slowly, with an odd 
sense of `I'm falling and I can't get up,' Millie slumped over onto 
Jack's living room floor. Her right cheek pressed against the rug, she 
lay there, stunned.

She really should sweep under the sofa.

Aware of movement somewhere nearby, Millie sluggishly wondered why she 
was paralyzed, why her arms tingled and why she couldn't seem to breathe 
through her nose. Just as she heard a soft, masculine curse, her nerve 
endings re-booted and pain kicked in. Sounding suspiciously like a cat in 
heat, she moaned.

Something large and warm moved close, then strong hands were lifting her 
up, depositing her gently onto the sofa. Her entire face pounding, she 
leaned back against the soft cushions and squinted up at Jack. He was 
dripping with sweat and was extremely pale.

"Oh God, Millie. Oh crap. I'm sorry. Just . . . wait right here."

"Whant . . . hnappened?"

But Jack had disappeared. Her head drooped towards her chest, feeling 
decidedly heavy and . . . wobbly. Then Jack was back. Biting his lower 
lip, he pressed a cool, damp towel against her face. When he pulled it 
back, it was covered with blood.

"I think you should lie down."

Studying the angle of his jaw and those cute little lines that ran up his 
cheeks like a set of parentheses bracketing his mouth, Millie let him 
ease her down onto the sofa. "Whant hnappened, Janck?" And why did she 
sound like the lead singer for the Statler Brothers?

"God, Millie, I slugged you."

"Whyn'd you hint me, Janck? Whant'd I do?" Okay, so she was still a 
little confused.

If possible, he paled further as he gently dabbed the towel on her face. 
"You didn't do anything, Brit. Not a single damned thing."

She lay there quietly while he doctored her, trying to slip the events of 
the past few minutes back into place. Her entire face was beginning to 
seriously throb, but she felt sleepy despite the pain. "Onh, I renember. 
You were dreamning." He'd been having a nightmare. She looked up at him. 
He was vacantly staring towards the center of her face and he was still 
sweating profusely. Without thinking, she reached and touched his wet 
cheek. He felt hot. "You sinck?"

"I'm fine." His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

"Janck?"

He blinked and finally focused his eyes on her. "Millie, please forgive 
me. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt . . .," Jack gasped softly and 
for a brief second Millie thought he might cry. But he didn't. Not even 
close. He blinked again and his face seemed to harden. "I should have 
told you. I didn't think. Never touch me when I'm sleeping. Never. Do you 
hear?"

"Whyn?"

His dark eyes glittered in the dim light of a non-receptive television 
and he moved the towel, touching it to her face again with a gentleness 
that was out of place with the tension radiating off of him. "I have a 
lot of nightmares about . . . stuff. Promise me, Millie. Promise me 
you'll never touch me when I'm asleep. Just .. . holler at me. Throw 
something. Anything. But don't get close to me. Okay?"

"Onkay, I promnise." Millie shut her eyes. "Janck, counld you bring the 
anspirin?"

He placed the towel in her hand and patted her arm. "Sure. I'll be right 
back."

She was almost asleep when he returned with the bottle of aspirin. With 
his help, she sat up on the sofa and shook three tablets onto her palm. 
He handed her a glass of water and she washed the painkillers down, then 
shook out four more and pressed them into his hand. He was still 
trembling. Jack frowned at the pills and then at her.

"No onffense, bunt you lonk like cranp."

Despite his paleness and the sweat glistening on his face, he smiled. 
"Coming from you, Brit, that is so not a compliment." He studied her 
face. "Trust me."

Millie forced a lopsided smile, feeling the tug of already-swelling 
tissues. "Anm I prenty?"

"Absolutely freakin' gorgeous." He paused. "Well, if you don't mind blood 
and black eyes and swelling and that," he made a face and pointed 
obscurely towards her nose, "that big honkin' booger hanging out of your 
nose."

"Whant?" Appalled, Millie reached for her face.

Chuckling, Jack grabbed her hand, stopping her. "Don't. Don't. I was only 
kidding. No boogers. I promise."

Millie swatted at him, then pushed the hand containing the aspirin 
towards his face. Frowning again, he swallowed them.

"There. I hope you're happy. Now, how about we go to bed?"

Millie groaned as, despite her mangled face, a wave of heat she'd once 
read about in a stupid romance novel rushed through her, settling 
somewhere between her groin and the pit of her stomach. Refrigerator. 
Refrigerator. Oh, right. Overused. As Jack slipped a hand beneath her 
arm, helping her to her feet, Millie scrambled for something, anything, 
to save him from her evil clutches. Her face pounding and her vision 
swimming, she leaned against him and giggled as he led her towards the 
guest bedroom.

"What could possibly be funny about this?"

Millie giggled again. "Nonthig."

Homer Simpson. Homer Simpson.

                         *******************

She slept until just after 10:00 a.m. Still wearing her dirty, now 
slightly blood-splattered, cut-offs and tshirt, Millie studied her face 
in the bathroom mirror. Other than a headache and a dull throbbing across 
the small of her back where she'd slammed into the coffee table, she 
didn't feel too bad. She just looked like hell.

Actually, she looked like she'd been on the receiving end of a barroom 
brawl. She, Millie Guthro, the mouthiest person she knew who had never 
been in a real, honest-to-God fight. The very thought of her duking it 
out made her smile, which in turn made her groan and put a hand to her 
tender face. Her left eye was black and swollen nearly shut. Her nose had 
approximately doubled in size and her upper lip had ballooned out on one 
side, throwing her whole face out of kilter. The effect would have been 
comical if it hadn't been quite so grotesque.

She had to confess to a few `The Morning After at Jack's Place' 
fantasies. Funny, not a single one had ever involved her hiding in the 
bathroom because she didn't want to hear the man of her dreams screaming 
like a frightened girl. Well, nothing to do but suck it up. Walk it off. 
Pretend she didn't give a flying hoot.

She found him sitting at the dining room table reading the paper and 
nursing a cup of coffee. As she stepped into the room, he looked at her 
over the top of the paper, then slowly lowered it to the table.

"Holy crap." He grimaced. "I was really hoping that was just part of a 
very bad dream."

"Yeah, well, it was good for me, too, thanks."

"Sorry." He stood up. "Let me get you some breakfast. You want some 
bacon, toast?" He stopped next to her and reached out, tipping her head 
back with his hand, studying her face. "Damn, Brit. You look .. . bad."

"Bet you say that to all the girls you beat the crap out of." His already 
pale face blanched further and Millie felt a stab of remorse. "I was 
kidding. It wasn't your fault."

"Yeah. Right." He let go of her and made his way into the kitchen. She 
followed. "So . . . breakfast?"

"Jack, please. I shouldn't have said that."

"You had every right to say that." He opened the refrigerator and peered 
inside. "How about an omelette?"

"Seriously, I have a real problem with mouthing off before I think about 
what I'm saying." He glanced over at her. "But you probably hadn't 
noticed that about me, am I right?" She smiled crookedly, but he merely 
turned back to the refrigerator.

"I can make pancakes."

"I don't want breakfast. I just . . . I don't want you to feel guilty. 
Because it's okay. Really."

Jack straightened, still holding the refrigerator door open, then turned 
to look at her. "It's okay?" He sighed softly. "Have you looked at 
yourself in the mirror?"

"Have you?" He didn't respond. "Cause you don't look so great yourself, 
you know."

"Excuse me, but I'm not the victim here."

Millie snorted through her swollen sinuses. "*Victim*? Oh, please. Don't 
be so melodramatic."

"Millie, I hit you. I punched you in the face, for crying out loud."

"So? What's your point?"

"My point? My *point*?" He slammed the refrigerator door shut with a dull 
thud and a muted clash of jars banging together. "My point is, you should 
be pissed. You should be throwing things at me. Yelling. Quitting. 
Calling the cops. Something. Anything!" His voice had risen as he spoke 
and when he stopped, she could hear him panting softly. His chest was 
heaving and he was sweating again.

"Okay. So, let me get this straight. You're mad because I'm not. Is that 
it?"

"I'm not mad."

"Well, you sound-"

"I said, I'm not mad!"

"Fine!"

"You can't let people use you like that, Millie! You have to fight back!"

"*What*?" Maybe she was hurt worse than she'd thought because Millie was 
suddenly completely confused as to why were arguing. "What are you 
talking about? People using me? No one's used me. Certainly not you."

Jack winced, then leaned back against the counter and pressed a shaking 
hand to his head, pressing firmly. "God, Millie, I'm . . . I'm sorry. I 
don't know what . . . ." He shook his head.

Mimicking his earlier treatment of her, Millie went to the sink and 
dampened a towel. She pressed it against his forehead, then wrapped his 
free hand around it and stepped back, watching him closely.

"So who were we just talking about, Jack?"

He squinted over at her, questioning her with a look.

"Well, either someone was `projecting' just now, or I wasted some serious 
session time with Doctor Do-You-Love-Your-Mother." When he didn't 
respond, Millie decided to press her luck. "Who do you really want to 
beat the crap out of?"

At first she thought she'd misread the whole scenario. He gave her a look 
so completely lacking in guile and understanding that she really thought 
she needed to brush up on her psychology. Then, just as she started to 
apologize or better yet, change the subject, he swallowed loudly and the 
blood appeared to drain from his face. Grunting, he ran past her out of 
the kitchen. She stared after him a moment before stepping into the 
dining room mumbling, "Something I said?" As soon as she reached the 
table she could hear the unmistakable sounds of vomiting.

Millie stopped in the open doorway of the guest bathroom. Jack was down 
on his knees with both hands braced on the toilet and his back arched as 
he heaved violently. She cringed and her stomach lurched in sympathy as 
she watched and listened to the man's obvious misery. He was still 
clutching the towel and she pulled it from his grasp, re-wetting it with 
cold water. She placed the cool cloth on the back of his neck and stepped 
around him, sitting down on the edge of the tub. It wasn't long before he 
flushed the toilet and sank down on the floor near her feet, leaning back 
against the tub and scrubbing the wet towel across his face.

"So . . .," she swallowed, grateful that her swollen nose impeded her 
sense of smell, "you okay?"

He glanced up at her over the towel, then mumbled into it, "I'm fine."

Millie grunted softly. "Yeah. You look great." She had the distinct 
feeling that if Jack hopped in with one leg dangling by a puny thread of 
skin, he'd swear he was just fine, thank you very much for asking even 
though it's none of your business. One dark brown eye glared up at her 
past the towel. "Almost as good as me," she grinned.

Jack groaned. "Are you always such a smart-ass?"

"Mostly."

He tossed the towel into the sink and leaned his head back against the 
tub, shutting his eyes. Millie studied the dark circles under the deep-
set eyes and the tense lines etched into the handsome face. She didn't 
know him well, but he looked more than just sick. If she were guessing, 
she'd say she was looking at a man who was completely drained. Without 
thinking, she dug in the pocket of her cut-offs and pulled out a small 
wad of paper. Curling her fist around it, she stared down at her bare 
feet.

"Why do you make notes?"

He frowned slightly, his eyes still closed. "What do you mean?"

"Most people jot down telephone numbers, email addresses, things they 
need from the store. You write down quotes. I find them all over the 
house."

Jack shrugged non-committally.

"'Much learning does not teach understanding.'" She'd memorized it. He 
raised his head and looked at her, and Millie handed him the crumpled 
paper. "I found it yesterday when you were asleep."

Jack stared down at the limp, wrinkled paper. The ink had smeared and was 
nearly illegible. "It's a habit. My mother used to do the same thing. Dad 
bitched and moaned that he couldn't open a cabinet or a drawer or a book 
without little slips of paper fluttering out all over the place."

"What did she write? Quotes, like you?"

He seemed to think about it. "I'm not sure. I honestly can't remember. 
But I know *why* she did it. She said her brain was cluttered with 
trivial things. Mom was one of the smartest people I've ever known. Hell, 
she could read a damn bank statement and recite it back to you from 
memory. But she was absolutely terrified of forgetting something 
important."

"Is that why you do it? So you won't forget."

Jack gently pressed the wrinkles from the softened paper. "Maybe. Yeah, I 
guess so." He balanced the paper on his bent knee, then scrubbed his 
hands over his face, pressing hard on his temples. "I have all this stuff 
in my head: dates, battles, faces, mission reports." He laughed softly, 
sadly. "Memories. Lots of memories. Sometimes it just gets to be too 
much. Lately, it . . ." His voice trailed off and he sighed deeply.

"'Much learning does not teach understanding,'" she repeated, mulling 
over the words.

Jack's voice was quiet. "It's from 'The Universe' by Heraclitus. It just 
. . . it seemed important. Fitting. I thought it might put things into 
perspective."

They were quiet for several minutes and despite the fact that they were 
sitting in Jack's bathroom, it was a comfortable silence. Finally, Millie 
smiled to herself at an unbidden memory.

"My mom collected butter bowls."

He looked at her. "A lot of people do that."

"No. No, Jack. She didn't collect them to re-use them. She *collected* 
them. She put the pretty ones on display in the china cabinet. She left 
them to my Aunt Irene in her will."

"How very . . .," but he obviously couldn't think of a kind description, 
so he smiled instead.

Millie laughed. "Maybe I really am British."

They were both still chuckling when the doorbell rang.

"Oh crap," Jack moaned.

"What?"

"My team. I forgot. They're supposed to come over today."

"You want me to get it?"

Jack glanced at her face. "Although scaring them off is tempting, I'd 
better let them in."

When he opened the door, it was to three of the most diverse individuals 
Millie could have imagined. Daniel, of course, she already knew. Jack 
introduced her to a tall, slim, blonde woman named Carter or, as the 
woman insisted, Sam. Millie was surprised. She'd heard Jack talk about a 
Sam Carter and had always assumed it was a guy. But Carter was definitely 
female, complete with legs that went all the way up - the kind of legs 
Millie had always dreamed about having.

Then there was the biggest, most stately man Millie had ever met. His 
name was Murray, a name which seemed entirely ill-suited to him, as did 
the Colorado Rockies baseball cap which was pulled down over his massive 
head. When introduced to her, he had nodded regally and announced in the 
most precise English Millie had ever heard that it was his pleasure. She 
had a fleeting urge to dust off the British accent and to toss in a 
curtsy. Instead, she smiled crookedly.

"My God, Millie, are you all right? What happened?" Daniel's mouth had 
dropped open when he first saw her and now he was squinting, eyeing the 
damage to her face.

Jack cleared his throat as the five of them moved into the living room.

Carter laughed softly. "What'd you do, sir, give her a boxing lesson?"

"Um," Jack sat on the sofa, blushing slightly.

"Let *me* tell them." Even though she knew Carter had spoken in jest, 
Millie had a sudden need to rise to the man's defense.

"What?" Jack looked embarrassed and once again guilt-ridden. "Listen, you 
don't have to . . ."

"It's my story. I should get to tell it." Millie sank down onto the sofa, 
close to Murray. "I came over late yesterday because there was a . . . 
problem with my apartment and Jack graciously offered me the use of his 
spare room."

"I did?" He met her gaze. "Yes. I did."

"Well, anyway, when I got here, there was a woman here. What was her 
name, Jack? Corduroy? Cordon Bleu? Something."

"Corday," he mumbled.

"Yeah, that's it. Corday. Real pretty in a flashy sort of way. Although, 
I'm not exactly sure what you saw in her, Jack. She just didn't strike me 
as your type. Anyhoo . . . we all three started playing cards. Poker. She 
did good for a couple of hands. Really raked it in, hey, Jack?"

He coughed and nodded.

"But then she started losing. And, well, let's just say that when the 
chips were down, she started showing her true colors. Got real pissy. 
Started mouthing off . . . mostly to Jack. Said he was cheating; that he 
was an idiot and a selfish jerk; she didn't know what she'd ever seen in 
him. That kind of stuff. Then she called him squirrelly."

"She called you squirrelly, sir?" Carter had a huge smile plastered over 
her face.

"Apparently," Jack grimaced.

Daniel chuckled and Murray simply cocked an eyebrow.

"Yeah. That's when I lost it. I'm not exactly sure what came over me. I 
told her to shut up and to get the hell out."

"Wow." Daniel seemed impressed. "Then what happened?"

"To be perfectly honest, the rest is kind of a blur. Jack'll have to fill 
you in on the details."

Everyone looked towards the still pale, but now smiling man. He shrugged 
and glanced over at Millie. "What can I say? She kicked Corday's butt. 
Whipped her ass. I've never seen anything like it before in my life. A 
hundred-pound terror in tennis shoes. Let me clue you in, guys, you do 
not want to mess with this one."

"Geesh." Daniel frowned and studied Millie closely.

"Holy Hannah," Sam whispered.

Murray tilted his head. "You are a formidable warrior, MillieGuthro."

Millie blushed. "Well, you know, it was nothing really." She glanced over 
at Jack. "Right?"

Jack smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Brit. I'd say what happened here 
was pretty spectacular." 

The End

                         *******************

This Nest of Sparrows - A Matter of Time
By Charli Booker - charli.booker@netzero.com


RATING: FR-T

WARNINGS: A teeny, tiny bit of potty-mouth 

CATEGORY: Drama, Humor, Hurt/Comfort

PAIRING: Maybe in her dreams....

SPOILERS: None

TIME FRAME: Season 2.  #3 in The Sparrows Series

SUMMARY: The continuing saga of Millie Guthro and the World According to 
Jack.  Timing is everything.

DISCLAIMER: 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.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to Jude, and thanks to everyone who asked for 
another Millie fic.  I can=t tell you how much your kind words mean to 
me.  And just so you know - the fast food scenario really happened, but 
probably not to Millie.


                         *******************

Millie Guthro glanced at her watch. Twenty-two minutes late. Damn! The 
woman in the car in front of her slowly eased her Lincoln Navigator 
towards the large menu board then leaned out her window. Taking her own 
sweet time, she studied the board, apparently reading it line for line. 
Okay, was it Millie's imagination or had the woman not just spent the 
last ten minutes sitting in line, during which time she could have 
figured out what she wanted to eat? Lady Navigator continued to read and 
Millie tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, checking her watch 
again. Jack would be waiting.

"Good grief. Order already." There were a limited number of ways in which 
to order fried fat; it didn't take a rocket scientist to order a friggin' 
burger and a bag of fries.

Finally, the woman spoke into the speaker at some length before leaning 
back into her car. She eased the huge SUV slightly forward, then slammed 
on her brakes and spoke into the speaker again.

Milled groaned and pounded her forehead against the steering wheel, then 
flinched and looked down at the dashboard as her own car's engine 
suddenly slowed, idling roughly. Damn! She slipped the car into neutral 
and gave it some gas, loudly revving the engine. When she glanced back 
up, the look on Lady Navigator's face was priceless as she suspiciously 
eyed Millie and her Metal Beast. Millie giggled and revved the motor 
again.

"What's the matter, Lady, afraid my foot might slip off the brake and 
I'll accidentally throw you into next Tuesday?" Millie grinned broadly 
and waved.

The woman hurriedly spoke into the speaker, put her over-priced Brag-
Mobile in gear and sped to the pick-up window.

"Thank God." Millie noisily gunned her way to the speaker.

"Order when you're ready."

Well, if that were really true, her order would have been placed - she 
glanced again at her watch - geesh! 16 minutes ago.

"Yeah, I'll have two double cheeseburgers with everything, one large fry, 
a medium Coke and a medium diet Coke."

There was a long, dramatic pause. "Do you want lettuce on those 
cheeseburgers."

D'uh. Since when was lettuce not a part of 'everything'? "Yes. Lettuce."

"Okay. . . . What about tomato?"

Holy crap! "Yes. Tomato, onion, pickles, lettuce, mustard, ketchup. 
Everything. Even buns," she added, just in case. 

There was another long pause. "Cheese?"

Millie groaned and bit her lip. Repeat after me: Do not piss off the help 
until *after* they've had a chance to whiz in your food. "Yes. Cheese 
would be nice."

"Okay. So, that's two double cheeseburgers with everything, including 
lettuce, tomato and cheese, one large french fry, and one large Coke and 
a diet."

"Uh, no, wait. Those drinks were mediums."

"Yeah. Larges."

"No. Mediums."

"We don't have mediums."

"Excuse me?" Millie slipped her car into neutral and revved the throbbing 
motor again.

"I said, we don't have mediums."

She glanced at the menu board. Okay - three prices, three sizes. "Yes, 
you do."

"No. We don't." The condescension in the voice of what had to be a 
teenage girl came through the lousy speaker loud and clear. Millie 
thought she could even detect the popping of gum, but it might have been 
her overactive imagination. "We have regular, large and jumbo. So, you 
want larges or what?"

"I want mediums." Actually, I want *friggin'* mediums, but that may have 
to wait.

"Ma'am, I told you, we don't have mediums."

Millie revved her motor, put a hand over her mouth and mentally counted 
to ten. Okay, to twenty. She'd been nice. Hadn't she? She would admit 
that lettuce could possibly fall outside the realm of 'everything.' She 
could even stoop to the level of placing a special order for cheese on a 
*cheese*burger. But she absolutely drew the line at calling a medium a 
large.

She removed her hand from her mouth and smiled up at what she knew to be 
a camera. "I would like a middle-sized Coke and a middle-sized diet Coke. 
Please," she added.

"Okay. So that's two larges."

"Two that cost $1.29," Millie insisted, smiling and revving the motor so 
that she couldn't hear Little Miss I Flunked Math's retort. She couldn't 
drop it, but didn't have time to argue about it. As the engine noise died 
down, Millie heard nothing further from the crackling speaker so she 
scratched the bridge of her nose with her middle finger and gunned her 
way to the pick-up window.

                         *******************

Juggling the two drinks and a bag containing the burgers and fries, 
Millie pressed on the doorbell. She knew Jack was home. His pick-up was 
sitting in the driveway. Finally, after the third ring, the door opened 
to a slightly dazed looking Jack.

"Millie?"

"Hey, Jack. Did I wake you?"

"Wake me?" He glanced at his watch and then back at her. Taking the 
drinks from her hand, he forced a tired smile. "No. You didn't wake me."

"Good." She led the way to the dining room, setting the bag on the table. 
"I brought lunch."

"I can see that." As she dug in the bag, Jack watched her, still holding 
the drinks. "Why did you do that?"

Millie grinned at him. "Oh, I don't know . . . because I'm so hungry I 
could eat a horse and burgers were the closest thing I could find?"

She took the drinks from him and set them on the table. Shoving a burger 
over to him, she sat down. Almost mechanically, Jack pulled out a chair 
and joined her. He pried open the foil from his sandwich and peered down 
at it. Millie took her first bite and chewed, watching him.

She swallowed, moaning softly, "God, I was starting to get the shakes." 
She sipped her soda and made a face, then switched drinks with him. "I 
hate diet. I don't know how you can drink that stuff."

Jack smiled and lifted the bun on his burger, studying it.

"These are special burgers, you know. They come complete with lettuce, 
tomato and cheese." Taking another bite, Millie shrugged. "I went all out 
on you, Jack. You should feel privileged."

"I do." He picked up his burger, started to take a bite, then set it back 
down. He glanced at the fries and then at her. "Afraid I'm not very 
hungry."

"Good, 'cause those fries have my name on them." She pulled them over and 
started wolfing them down *sans* ketchup, which she had belatedly learned 
was much like lettuce, tomato and cheese - it constituted a special order 
and apparently fell under the 'you don't ask, you don't get' rule. 
"Sorry, I'm late. I got a call from my Aunt Bertha and I couldn't get her 
off the phone."

"Late?" Jack gave her a blank look.

Millie stopped chewing. "What? It is the 17th, right? Thursday the 17th?"

Jack frowned, then groaned softly. "Oh, God. I'm sorry, Millie. I 
completely forgot."

"Oh." She swallowed a bite of burger, shoved a fry in her mouth and 
sipped on her middle-sized 'large' Coke. "Well, if you're busy, we can do 
it some other time."

"No." Rubbing his eyes, Jack smiled. "No, I'm not busy. It's just been a 
rough . . . a strange week, that's all."

Her hunger temporarily sated, Millie studied him closely, really looking 
at him for the first time since she'd arrived. He looked tired . . . 
again. She also noticed that he was sporting numerous tiny cuts on his 
arms and she saw a bandage peeking out of the neck of his t-shirt. "What 
happened this time, Jack? Another training accident?"

His only response was a weary sigh.

"You need to quit that job or it's going to be the death of you."

"Yes, mom."

"I'm serious."

"It's the Air Force, Millie, and I can't just quit."

"Well, not that you're old, but can't you retire or something?"

"It's not that simple. And I am old, but thanks anyway."

"Well, vote for me next election and I'll have you out," she snapped her 
fingers, "just like that."

"I appreciate the sentiment. But what I do, well, it's just . . . I can't 
leave right now."

"Oh, I suppose no one else on Earth is qualified to do your job?"

"Well, yeah, I suppose lots of people are, but I couldn't . . . I 
wouldn't ask anyone else to do it, Millie. You'll just have to trust me 
on this one."

"Fine. Have it your way." Finishing off the burger, she wadded up the 
foil and tossed it into the bag. "Why don't we do this some other time, 
Jack?"

"No. I don't want you driving around in a car that's not running right. 
You could get stranded somewhere."

"Now who's talking like a mother?"

"Like a father, but that's beside the point. Come on, it'll just take a 
few minutes." Jack pushed himself up from the table, biting his lip and 
grimacing.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yeah." He smiled tightly. "I'm fine. Really. Come on."

But he didn't walk fine. He walked like someone in pain, stiff and 
favoring his right side. As Millie followed him outside, she couldn't 
help but wonder exactly what Jack was 'training' his people for. Whatever 
it was, they obviously weren't getting any better at it, not if Jack's 
injuries were any indication of their competence.

As they rounded the corner of the house, Jack stopped and let out a long, 
low whistle.

"*That's* your car? *That's* the 'old clunker' your Grandma left you in 
her will?"

"Yeah."

He made a slow circuit around the vehicle, peering in the windows and 
brushing his fingers almost lovingly across the taillights. "Do you have 
any idea what this is?"

"Sure. It's a 1956 Chevy Nomad."

Jack smiled over at her. "Mint condition."

"Harbor blue and white." Millie reached over and rubbed a smudge of dirt 
from the front fender. "Grandma parked it in the barn."

"Let me guess: she only drove it to church on Sundays."

Millie laughed. "Hardly. She drove it twice a week: once to pick up her 
groceries, her mail and her weekly bottle of blackberry wine; and once to 
her Monday night poker game at Freda Richardson's 

house."

"Poker and booze, huh? Guess Grandma wasn't exactly a religious gal 
then."

"Actually, she was. But she quit going to church when Reverend Sanford 
told her she was going to hell for smoking."

Jack chuckled. "Poker, booze and smoking. Sounds like Granny was quite a 
gal."

"Yeah. I miss her."

Brushing by her on his way to the driver's door, Jack gently squeezed her 
arm but didn't speak. That was another one of the reasons why Millie 
liked Jack: he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Grunting softly, he 
eased onto the bench seat and placed both hands on the wheel, looking at 
the dash.

"My God, this thing has less than 32,000 miles on it. Are they original?"

She leaned against the open door, smiling. "So Grandma said."

"Millie, I think I love you."

Even though he was joking, Millie's heart measured out an extra beat upon 
hearing his words and she knew she was blushing. She tossed him the keys. 
"It's not for sale."

"Oh."

"But I'll make you a deal: If you can figure out why it's idling rough, 
I'll let you drive it."

Jack's face lit up, temporarily banishing the exhaustion and tight little 
lines of pain around his mouth. "Deal."

"You know, MacGyver used to drive one of these."

Running his hands over the blue and white upholstery, she could tell he 
was only half-listening. "Who?"

"Never mind. Listen, unless you need me, I think I'll go in and get a 
head start on tomorrow's cleaning. My boss can be a real pig."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Holler if you need me." Jack was leaning over, looking under the dash. 
Millie raised her voice. "I'll just be in here starching your boxer 
shorts and licking your toothbrush."

"Fine. That sounds great."

She laughed at the sound of his muffled voice and the wave of his hand as 
he dismissed her. "I'll leave you two alone then."

Inside the house, Millie stopped in the dining room and gathered up the 
remnants of their lunch. She stuck the extra burger and soda in the 
refrigerator and tossed the trash into the wastebasket. As she grabbed up 
the dishrag to wipe down the table, she saw the prescription bottles 
sitting near the sink. Curious, she picked them up.

Lodine, Zithromax and Vicodin. She shook the bottles, which according to 
the label had been prescribed by a Dr. J. Fraiser. There were only a few 
of the antibiotic tablets, but the bottle of painkillers and the Lodine-
whatever were nearly full. Why was she not surprised? Jack didn't strike 
her as the 'take as directed' type.

She set the bottles back down and finished cleaning up the dining room 
and kitchen. When she moved into the living room, she was surprised at 
the mess. Despite her assertions to the contrary, Jack really wasn't a 
pig. Quite the opposite actually - except for the kitchen. In fact, 
thanks to his borderline compulsive neatness, her job was an easy one. 
Usually.

Today, boxes and papers were scattered across the sofa, coffee table and 
floor. Frowning, wondering if she should just leave things as they were, 
Millie squatted down and picked up a small stack of photographs that had 
spilled out of a shoebox and were laying under the edge of the sofa. As 
she straightened the glossy prints, she thumbed through them. There were 
various photographs of a group of men in Air Force uniforms. In every 
photo, the men were wearing dark sunglasses and flight suits, and were 
smiling broadly. In one, a dark-haired, muscular man was hamming it up 
for the camera, his pose ridiculously provocative and feminine. Millie 
smiled as she leafed through the stack.

The next to last photograph was different. Instead of the group, the 
subject was two men standing next to each other in front of a large jet. 
Their faces were solemn and their manner stiff with their arms tucked 
rigidly behind their backs. Despite their formality, however, Millie had 
the general impression that the photographer had snapped the picture a 
fraction of a second too late, just missing out on a tremendous joke. The 
men appeared comfortable with one another, probably good buddies, and 
while there was no proof to support it, they seemed to be forcing back 
laughter. Millie found the picture compelling. Maybe it was the way their 
elbows were touching or maybe it was just because they were both so 
damned handsome.

Millie squinted and tilted the photo towards the light filtering through 
the living room window. The man on the left was Mr. Provocative. As she 
studied the man on the right, her mouth opened in shock. The young face 
staring back at her was Jack. Well, it was him, but it wasn't. He looked 
so different. Photo Jack looked as if life had held nothing but good 
things, and promised only better. She couldn't help but smile as she 
studied the man Jack had once been.

Flipping the photo over, she read feminine, flowery handwriting: "My 
boys. Off to save the world. . . . God help us all!"

Laughing softly, Millie sat down in the armchair near the window and 
looked at the last photo. It had obviously been taken on the same day. 
Jack was still wearing the flight suit and sunglasses but had been joined 
by a slim, attractive blonde wearing a print sundress. Millie knew it was 
Jack's ex-wife, the same woman who appeared in the framed photo on his 
nightstand. The woman was standing with her back against Jack's front; he 
had his arms wrapped around her, his hands pressed territorially over her 
flat stomach.

Millie flipped the photo over. On the back, the same flowery handwriting 
proclaimed: "Jack, Sara and Charlie - our first family portrait."

Armed with knowledge of the occasion, Millie turned the picture over and 
studied their faces again. Jack was positively beaming. The woman, Sara, 
was resting her hands on Jack's arms and was looking at something just to 
the left of the camera. Although she was smiling, she looked distracted 
and worried, and the smile appeared forced.

Staring at Sara's face, Millie felt a sudden urge to check on Jack. 
Placing the photos back in the shoebox, she ventured outside. He was 
sitting on the front bumper of her car, leaning slightly to the right 
with his left arm wrapped across his abdomen. A large toolbox was sitting 
at his feet.

"Jack?"

He flinched and looked up at her, his face tight and pale. "Hey."

She sat down next to him. "God, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to 
look at my car today."

"Not a problem. It's done."

"Already?"

"It was just the timing."

"The timing?"

"Yeah. Just a simple matter of," he grimaced and tightened his grip on 
his right side, "adjusting the timing."

"You're hurting."

"I'm okay. Let's take her for a spin."

"How about you come inside and take your pain medicine instead?"

He frowned over at her. "You promised."

Millie had to fight back a smile at the petulance in his voice. "Yeah, I 
know. But we can go for a spin later."

"Now," he insisted.

"Jack."

"You said I could."

Millie snorted, grinning at him. "What, are you ten?"

He glared at her, but behind the pain, she detected a flash of humor. He 
was playing with her. "Welcher," he mumbled.

"Baby."

"Am not."

"Are, too," she insisted.

"Not."

"Too."

"Hey," he forced his hand away from his side and straightened, "we can 
stop and get ice cream."

"Okay, now I know you're ten."

"What, you don't like ice cream?"

Millie giggled. "Soft serve?"

"What else? Come on." Groaning softly, Jack pulled himself upright.

Thirty minutes later they pulled out of the drive-in and onto Fountain 
Boulevard. Jack was contentedly sucking on a chocolate milkshake and 
Millie was eating a vanilla ice cream cone. When he stopped at a red 
light, Millie looked over at the car beside them. A young woman behind 
the wheel of a red Mustang convertible was ogling Jack. Fiddling with his 
straw, he was oblivious to the attention.

Millie licked her cone. "Hottie alert at nine o'clock."

"Huh?" Jack looked over at her.

"You're being checked out by Madame Mustang."

He glanced over to his left and the woman met his gaze, smiling and 
running a manicured hand through her hair. Jack smiled and waved timidly.

"Cool car," the woman yelled over.

"Thanks."

Millie grunted softly.

"Come here often?" the woman laughed.

Jack chuckled and Millie leaned forward, hollering over his shoulder. 
"Our six kids tend to keep him busy."

"What are you doing?" Blushing slightly, Jack frowned at Millie. The 
light changed and the young woman glared then floored the Mustang, 
burning rubber.

"It's green."

Jack shook his head and turned onto Academy Boulevard. "What the hell was 
that about?"

"She was hitting on you."

"So?"

"D'uh. I'm sitting right here."

Jack glanced at her. "And I repeat: So?"

"For all she knew I'm your wife."

"For all she knew you're my kid, for crying out loud."

"Well that's just stupid. First of all, you're not old enough and 
secondly, I look nothing like you."

He mumbled something under his breath.

"Yeah, well, right back 'atcha," Millie snapped.

In silence, they drove north on Academy. Millie knew she had no right to 
be jealous of Jack. He was nothing but her boss, after all. Still, it 
irked her. She might be out of Jack's league but what right did some 
stranger have to make that call?

"Timing," he muttered.

She glanced at him. "Yeah, so you said. Sounds like it's running fine, 
now." She really shouldn't hold a grudge. After all, it wasn't his fault 
he was a guy. "Thanks."

"No. That's not what I meant. I meant, *my* timing." He glanced over at 
her. "It sucks."

As Jack took the Airport Road exit, Millie pitched the last of her ice 
cream cone out the window. "If that's an apology, I accept. Thank you."

He kept glancing at her.

"What?"

"And?" Jack prompted.

Millie always did hate fishing. "And our six children thank you."

He huffed softly. "Good thing they take after their father, that's all I 
have to say."

Millie glared at him, then turned to look out her window, hiding her 
smile. Cute *and* cool. Damn!

Lost in thought, she was only dimly aware of the clicking of the turn 
signal and it wasn't until she felt the car rolling to a stop that Millie 
finally glanced around. What the hell?

"Hey." She read the sign, studied the distant throng of people and looked 
over at Jack. "What's going on?"

He was so intent on watching the crowd that she wasn't sure he'd even 
heard her until he turned to look at her. His face was pale.

"Why are we here?" His lack of response scared her. "Jack, come on. Why 
are we stopping at Memorial Gardens?"

He looked back out the windshield, then down at his hands. He resumed 
playing with the straw in the melted milkshake. "He was my friend. A long 
time ago."

"Who?"

His eyes flicked briefly towards the cluster of mourners, then back down 
at his lap.

"Oh, God. Jack, this is your friend's funeral?" He didn't answer; he 
didn't move. "Shit." Millie fidgeted, then faced forward in the seat, not 
looking at him. "You should go over there. I'll wait here."

His voice was soft, almost inaudible. "Too late."

"It's not too late, Jack. It's still going on. Besides, I'm sure they'd 
understand if . . . just tell them you were in an accident. That you were 
hurt. You should go."

"No. I mean . . .," he stopped and rubbed a hand over his face. "I have 
no place here."

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Proceeding with caution, she took a 
moment to consider her next words. "What makes you say that?"

There was a hushed pause as his long fingers nervously toyed with the 
plastic straw. "I buried him years ago, Millie."

She suddenly realized that the pain lining his face wasn't all physical; 
it wasn't all brought on by a 'training accident.' The guy was hurting. 
For real. Where it counts the most. "You just think you did."

As a soft breeze swept in his window, sweeping the fragrance of his 
favorite aftershave past Millie's face, Jack gazed out at the crowd. 
"It's true. We were best friends and then . . . something happened and 
suddenly, I hated him. With everything I had."

Millie inhaled deeply, savoring the cool breeze and the closeness of the 
man who was nothing more than her boss. Like Jack, she, too, knew when to 
keep her mouth shut.

"I think . . . I think, deep down, I always thought I'd forgive him. 
Someday. But . . .," Jack sighed and looked out the side window towards a 
small grove of evergreens sheltering a granite angel.

"What was his name?"

Jack turned back and looked at her, studying her face in the late 
afternoon sun. "Frank. Frank Cromwell."

Millie smiled and unbuckled her seatbelt. Sinking back against the door, 
she slipped off her shoes and pulled her feet up on the bench seat, 
leaning her head out the open window. "What was he like?"

Jack reached over and shut off the motor, smiling. "He was a smart-ass, 
like you." Looking at Millie, his smile wilted. "And he was my best 
friend."

The End

                         *******************

This Nest of Sparrows - Holiday
By Charli Booker - charli.booker@netzero.com


RATING: FR-T

WARNINGS: A teeny, tiny bit of potty-mouth 

CATEGORY: Drama, Humor

PAIRING: Maybe in her dreams....

SPOILERS: None

TIME FRAME: Season 2.  #4 in The Sparrows Series

SUMMARY: The continuing saga of Millie Guthro and the World According to 
Jack.  You can get away from everything, but not without taking yourself 
with you.

DISCLAIMER: 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.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: For Jake ( my best friend for 26 years and he still likes 
everything about me...even the bad stuff.


                         *******************

I watch, and am become like a sparrow that is alone upon the house-top. 
Psalms 102:7

"Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't 
matter, and those who matter don't mind." - Dr. Seuss

                         *******************

What the hell ever possessed her to do it, Millie Guthro would never 
know. There was no question but that she knew better. Her Grandmother had 
given her lessons in it when Millie had been a shy eight-year old. That 
being said . . . she did it anyway.

She picked up the phone expecting her friend Christy and got Jack 
instead. While that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, her own stupidity 
made it so. Because Millie, ignoring Granny's long-forgotten lessons in 
telephone etiquette, lifted the receiver to her mouth and said, "So, 
should I shave the elastic on my bras or just give in and go buy new 
ones?"

There was a lengthy pause, during which Millie had time to recognize the 
error of her ways. Even her heartbeat seemed to slow as she waited, then 
prayed, for her friend's soft chuckle.

Millie swallowed and licked her suddenly dry lips. "Christy?"

There was a hesitant, masculine, "Uh."

Oh God. What had she done?

"Millie?"

Holy crap! "Jack?"

In answer, she heard soft laughter. Jack had a good laugh. Normally, 
there were few things she'd rather hear. Normally. . . . Her face hot 
with embarrassment, Millie silently endured what felt like interminable 
laughter.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "Um," he coughed softly, "I'm having some 
people over later." He laughed again, once. "I was just calling to see if 
you wanted to join us."

Of course, he was assuming that she'd ever be able to face him again. 
Sinking onto the sofa, angry at herself and her big, stupid mouth, Millie 
forced herself to sound calm, controlled . . . not mortified. Definitely 
not mortified. "Oh, I don't know. What time and what for?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, it's not an Amway meeting or something, is it?"

Jack chuckled again. "No. I leave anything resembling a pyramid to 
Daniel. It's just a cookout. Everyone's bringing something to eat. I'll 
supply the music and beer."

"Well, okay. What do you want me to bring?"

"Dessert?"

Millie had to smile at the subtle begging. Jack loved her pies. So did 
Daniel. "Okay. I guess I can manage that. What time?"

"Six?"

"Sounds good."

"Okay. I'll see you then."

"Oh, and Jack," Millie swallowed. When it came to humiliation, she was 
definitely a 'shoot yourself before someone else has a chance' kind of 
girl. "You didn't answer the question."

"What question?"

"You know, about the bras."

Jack's laughter was the last thing she heard before the phone went dead.

                         *******************

Millie pulled into Jack's driveway, closely followed by a small sports 
car. As she crawled out of her car, she couldn't help but notice the 
graceful manner in which Samantha Carter disembarked from her own set of 
wheels. Millie grimaced and walked back to open the trunk. She'd only met 
Sam a few times, but what little she knew of Jack's female team member 
was enough to tell her that Sam was everything Millie wasn't.

Sam was tall and slender, with long, lean legs. Lots and lots of leg. The 
kind men drooled over. She was blonde and pretty, smart and likeable, and 
probably brave, too, considering the fact that she was an officer in the 
Air Force. In sum, Sam was pretty much the opposite of Millie. Millie was 
short and scrawny, with dull brown hair and a plain face. She wasn't 
stupid, but she was no whiz kid either, and she definitely wouldn't 
categorize herself as likeable. Even worse, despite the mouth, she had a 
feeling that deep down lurked the heart of a true coward.

"Oh my God." Sam whistled as she stepped up alongside Millie, towering 
over her. "No wonder the Colonel wants your car. What is this a '57?"

"Fifty-six." Millie handed Sam a box containing two pies, and grabbed the 
second box herself.

"A Nomad, right?"

Grunting a 'yes,' Millie slammed the trunk. "Like the one . . ."

". . . MacGyver used to drive," Sam finished.

Millie smiled. Finally, someone who could appreciate the only decent show 
to have ever hit the small screen. Well, that and The Andy Griffith Show. 
"Exactly."

"God, I used to watch that when I was a kid." Sam hefted the box onto a 
slim hip and opened Jack's front door, holding it open for Millie. "I'll 
tell you a little secret. I used to think he was the sexiest man I'd ever 
laid eyes on."

"And now?"

"Well," Sam shrugged just as Jack came striding into the house from the 
deck. "Colonel."

"Hey, Carter. Millie, I'm surprised to see you here this soon."

Millie set the box down on the dining room table and glanced at the clock 
on the wall. It was nearly 6:30. "This soon?"

"Yeah, figured you had some shopping to do. Or was it shaving? I can't 
remember." Jack smiled benignly as he looked in the box, studying the 
pies. "Coconut cream. My favorite. Carter, you haven't lived until you've 
sampled Millie's wares."

"Uh," Sam frowned, obviously still trying to figure out what the inside 
joke was about.

"God, Jack, you make me sound like a cheap Denver whore."

He lifted a pie out of the box and held it up to the light, admiring it. 
"I can attest to the fact that there's absolutely nothing cheap about 
you, Millie." Jack set the pie down on the table and headed for the 
kitchen. "Besides, everybody knows you're from Britain."

Sam studied Millie. "You're British?"

                         *******************

Millie finally met Janet. She'd heard Janet's name, and had even talked 
to her once on the telephone but, until today, she'd never met her and 
had never once guessed that Janet was the 'Dr. J. Fraiser' on the 
prescription bottles in the kitchen cabinet next to the sink. The real 
clincher was: Janet was short. As short as Millie. And she wasn't blonde. 
Millie liked her instantly.

There was also Cassandra, Janet's adopted daughter. From what Millie was 
able to learn, Cassie and Janet had been together for just over a year. 
Watching the group laughing and talking, it was obvious that while Janet 
might have legally adopted the girl, Cassie had unofficially adopted 
everyone else as well, especially Jack.

Then there was George Hammond. He was introduced to her as the General, 
but she found it hard to picture him as a military man. Everything about 
him reminded Millie of her Uncle Hermie, a simple rancher from the 
panhandle of Texas. When she was nine years old, she had spent the summer 
with Uncle Hermie, Aunt Grace and her two cousins, Jimmy and Junior, on 
their small cattle ranch about an hour northwest of Abilene.

Millie had fond memories of long, hot, dusty days spent gathering eggs, 
roping fence posts, skinny dipping in the cattle trough, and riding a 
gentle Pinto named Buck. She and Jimmy had passed the evenings swinging 
in the porch swing as they took turns reading aloud from the 'Adventures 
of Tom Sawyer,' playing tag in the dark, and catching lightning bugs. 
Uncle Hermie had punched holes in the lid of a jar, so that every night 
Millie could fall asleep to the soft glow of captured fireflies in a 
Mason jar on the table by her bed. And every night she'd dreamed of 
riding Buck, and how she would grow up to marry sixteen-year old Junior. 
They'd have lots of kids and horses, and would eat homemade ice cream 
every night.

When her parents had come for her in early August, Millie had cried as 
she'd watched the large farmhouse and barn disappear into the Texas dust. 
Three years later, Junior was killed when he'd rolled his pick-up truck 
on his way home from his girlfriend's house. Uncle Hermie and Aunt Grace 
had stayed on the small ranch until the mid-1980's, then they'd moved 
into a retirement villa in Abilene and had quietly died a few years apart 
from one another. The last Millie had heard, Jimmy was an architect with 
a large firm in Dallas, and had been married and divorced twice.

"Earth to Millie."

"Huh?" She flinched, startled to find Jack standing directly in front of 
her.

"You okay?"

"Sure. Fine."

"You looked a little . . . lost."

She grinned at him and swatted at a buzzing fly. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"Texas and homemade ice cream."

Jack stared at her blankly. "Okay." He paused and Millie was reminded of 
the Grand Canyon scene from the movie 'Vacation.' Jack looked a little 
like Chevy Chase, staring out over the vast crevasse for the requisite 
ten-count before forcing everyone back into the station wagon with dead 
Aunt Edna strapped to the roof. "Daniel wants to ride in your car."

Millie searched his too-innocent face. "Daniel."

"Wants to ride in your car." Jack grinned. "So . . . can he?"

"Sure." Millie smiled just as innocently. "As soon as he comes and asks 
nicely."

Huffing softly, Jack crossed the deck, yelling at Murray to leave his 
grill the hell alone.

"I see you've caught on to the Colonel's tricks." Millie glanced over to 
find that Janet was standing beside her, smiling. 

"Yeah. He's an evil ten-year old trapped in the roughed-up body of a 
forty-something man."

Janet laughed softly, then sipped her beer. "So, what do you think of the 
rest of Jack's friends?"

"The rest of?"

"Sure." Janet frowned slightly. "You do realize he's told us all about 
you? He even quotes you."

"*Really*?" Millie glanced over at Jack, who was whispering to Murray as 
he threw odd glances in her direction.

"I believe my particular favorite is: 'Never eat where you can buy 
underwear.'"

"The only time I broke that rule, I paid dearly." She looked back at 
Janet. "He talks about me?"

"He thinks you're funny."

"Oh." Well, that sounded about right.

"That's very important to him."

What? Someone to laugh at? One of the guys? Millie forced a smile. 
"You're a doctor, huh?"

"Yes."

"So tell me, is Jack awkward or something?" At Janet's blank look, Millie 
continued. "Well, I mean, the guy's constantly getting hurt in 'training 
accidents.' What's up with that?"

"Um," Janet paled slightly. "Well . . . hey, Sam! How about a game of 
volleyball?" She smiled back at Millie. "Do you play?"

                         *******************

"Get the damn ball, Brit!"

Millie stretched as far as she could, but her short arms failed her and 
she hit the ground hard, sliding to a stop mere inches from the row of 
thorny rose bushes. Grimacing, a stabbing pain shooting down her left 
hip, she forced herself to her knees. Ow! Crap! That hurt. Slowly, she 
stood on unsteady legs.

"Are you okay?" Janet rushed over and stood in front of her, a soft hand 
on each of Millie's arms. "Maybe you'd better sit down."

"I'm . . .," ow! Millie forced down a groan. "I'm fine. Really."

"Dammit, Fraiser, drop the doctor routine. She's fine. Aren't you, Brit?"

Millie glared at Jack. "Call me that again and you'll scrub your own 
bloody toilet!"

Jack flinched and looked at Sam, then very slowly and deliberately 
reached under the net and gently shoved his fellow officer. "What the 
hell were you trying to do anyway? Kill her?"

"What?" Sam looked genuinely contrite. "I . . . no! I . . . you're the 
one who told her to get it, not me."

"Well you're the one who slammed the ball clear over there. So just . . . 
stop doing that. She's a civilian, for crying out loud."

"Hey!" Daniel protested.

Yeah, okay. Millie was fairly certain these people were going to be the 
death of her. If they didn't pummel her to death in a seemingly innocent 
volleyball game, they were going to drive her to the brink of suicide. 
She glanced up at George, who was sitting on the deck, contentedly 
sipping a glass of iced tea and then over at Cassie, who was *supposedly* 
playing volleyball. The young girl met Millie's gaze and blushed; 
obviously, Millie wasn't the only one who realized that Cassie had only 
volunteered so Jack would shut up. The girl had yet to make a move for 
the ball. Despite the reputations of Jack's team members, Millie was 
beginning to think that the oldest and youngest members of the group were 
the smartest ones here.

"So, Bri-uh, Millie, you going to play or just stand there?" Jack smiled, 
then chuckled softly. "You know, with the light hitting you just so, you 
and Fraiser look like a couple of garden gnomes."

Millie heard Daniel mutter 'oh, God' under his breath and saw Sam jerk as 
if Jack had struck her. George set down his glass with a loud clink and 
Cassie gasped. Murray simply turned his back to them.

Millie stared at Jack a moment, then faced Janet. The Doctor's face had 
hardened into sharp little angles and her cheeks were entirely too red. 
With her back to her boss, Millie smiled and spoke softly. "You want to 
back me up on this?"

It took a moment for Janet to realize that Millie had spoken. When she 
did, her eyes met Millie's. For a brief moment, the women studied each 
other, then Janet gave the barest of nods. "Go, girl. I've got your six."

Millie frowned, not sure what that meant, but she assumed Janet was 
saying she'd follow her lead. "Coming, Jack," she yelled over her 
shoulder, then turned to go back to the game. Millie took two steps 
before dropping to her knees, clutching her side and groaning loudly. 
"Ohmigod. Oh, oh."

Janet knelt beside her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

It was hard to keep a straight face. In truth, if it hadn't been for the 
fact that her left hip was screaming in protest, Millie was afraid she'd 
have lost it completely when Jack cursed and launched himself towards the 
Evil Garden Gnome Twins. Seeing him coming, Millie cranked it up a notch 
by laying back on the cool grass, and rocking and moaning.

"Oh, Janet. It hurts. Ow."

Janet rested a sweaty hand on Millie's neck. "Just hang on. Don't pass 
out on me, now, do you hear?"

Good idea. "I think . . . I think I'm going to pass out."

"Shit. Doc, what happened?" Jack knelt over Millie. Still clutching her 
side, she groaned loudly, feeling slightly guilty at the look of fear on 
Jack's face. "Do something, dammit!"

"Just calm down, Colonel."

Her eyes squeezed down to tiny slits, Millie was aware of the others 
standing over Janet and Jack, their faces tight and pale. Oh crap. Maybe 
she shouldn't have done this.

"Millie? Millie, honey, can you hear me?" Janet leaned close, her voice 
serious but humor lighting her dark eyes.

She nodded. "Y-yes."

"Don't try to move, okay? Colonel? Sir, I need you to carry her into the 
house."

"Yeah. Okay."

"I will carry her."

"No! Te-Murray, just," Janet motioned at the others with her hands, 
"everybody just stay back. Let the Colonel do it."

Millie heard Jack's knees crack as he scooted closer. His voice was 
softer than she'd ever heard it, sounding very close to the voice in her 
daydreams. "Millie, I'm going to lift you now. If I hurt you, you just 
let me know, okay? We're going to do this nice and easy."

"Okay."

He leaned so close that Millie could feel his warm breath on her neck as 
he slid his arms beneath her shoulders and under her knees. "You doing 
all right?"

"Yeah."

"Good girl. Just put your arms around my neck, okay?"

Millie nodded and slipped her hands around Jack's warm, tan neck. He 
grunted a little as he stood, but Millie had to give him credit . . . he 
lifted her as if she weighed next to nothing.

"Here we go." So saying, he turned and carried her inside the cool house. 
Figuring she might as well enjoy the moment, Millie let her head fall 
against his solid chest. His scent was intoxicating, a musky combination 
of sweat and charcoal smoke and the liquid soap he showered with. "Hey, 
you doing okay?"

"Mmm." Oh, yeah. She was doing great. Well, her hip was hurting a bit, 
but it was entirely made up for by having Jack's arms wrapped around her. 
Damn, she was going to have to cook more often. She swore she could feel 
one of his ribs digging into her side.

"Your room, please, Colonel," Janet directed.

Too soon, they were in Jack's bedroom. Very gently, he lowered her onto 
what Millie knew was his side of the bed. Oh yeah, baby! Then, he stood 
up, watching closely as Janet sat down beside her. Janet rested a hand on 
Millie's wrist as if taking her pulse, then glanced up at Jack.

"Uh, sir. I need to examine her. Maybe you should . . ."

Jack raised his eyebrows. "What?"

Janet motioned towards the hallway where the others had gathered.

"Oh." Recognition dawned on his face. "Oh! Yeah. Okay. If you need 
anything, holler. Okay? I'll be right outside." He moved out into the 
hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

As soon as it latched, Janet began giggling. "Did you see his face?" 
Still snickering, she opened the drawer in the bedside table and reached 
far into the back, pulling out a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights with a 
pack of matches shoved inside the cellophane. Millie scooted into a 
sitting position, her back against the headboard, and wondered how Janet 
had known they were there. Janet shook out a cigarette and lit it, 
inhaling deeply. "Damn," she mumbled in relief. Then, looking at Millie, 
she offered her the cigarette.

"No, thanks."

"Good for you. These things are killers." Janet wandered over to the 
window and pushed it open, blowing the smoke outside before leaning back 
on the windowsill. "So, how did you meet the Colonel?"

"Oh, um," Millie shifted her weight, trying to ease the ache in her hip, 
"I answered his ad for a housekeeper. That was a few months ago, early in 
the summer."

"That was Sam's and Daniel's idea. They tend to think Jack is helpless."

"But you don't."

Janet snorted softly and inhaled again. "Are you kidding? I've read the 
man's file. Trust me, Jack O'Neill is anything but helpless. It's an act, 
albeit a damn good one. The guy should win a friggin' Academy Award."

"Why do you-"

A soft knock on the door interrupted them, along with Jack's muffled, 
"Everything okay in there?"

"Everything's fine, sir. I'll be out in a minute."

"Is Millie all right?"

"I said, I'll be with you in a minute." Smiling, Janet shook her head and 
rolled her eyes. She waited a moment before mumbling, "Garden gnome my 
ass."

Millie grinned. "I feel kind of bad for him, actually. I probably 
shouldn't have done that."

"Are you kidding me?" Janet disappeared into the bathroom and Millie 
heard the toilet flush. The Doctor returned without the cigarette. "It's 
the most fun I've had in weeks. And he totally deserves it. I'd trust 
that man with my daughter's life and I wouldn't trade knowing him for 
anything but Jack can be a complete and utter shit. I have absolutely no 
idea how his wife stood him all those years."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. No. Hell, I don't know." Janet gave a gentle smile, taking the 
sting out of her harsh words. "But he's sweet on the eye, huh?"

Millie laughed but didn't answer.

"So, sister gnome, what's the diagnosis? Nothing too unbelievable. The 
guy's not nearly as stupid as he lets on."

"What's with Sam? Is she married or engaged or anything?"

"Sam? Hell, no. Not unless being married to your career counts. Sam is . 
. . very focused."

"And Daniel?"

"Daniel." Growing serious, Janet shoved the pack of cigarettes back in 
the drawer. "Daniel's married but his wife . . . well, she's missing, 
presumed dead."

"Oh, God. That's terrible."

"Yeah. And Murray's married with a son, but his family lives in another 
country. Me, I'm happily divorced. *Very* happily, I might add. The 
General is a widower. His daughter and two grandkids live here in the 
Springs. And I guess that's it, the whole motley crew."

"I cracked something."

"Okay. We'll tell him you cracked, what, a rib?"

"No, I mean it. I really think I cracked something."

Janet's face grew serious. "You're not kidding."

Millie shook her head, grimacing at the pain still shooting through her 
hip.

                         *******************

Grunting softly, Jack eased her onto the seat of her Nomad then leaned 
back slightly and studied her face. "You all right?"

"Yeah. But explain this to me again." She held out the keys to him.

"I told you, your car is the only one big enough."

"You have a huge pick-up truck."

"Um," he twirled the keys, "it's too high off the ground. You wouldn't be 
able to climb in and out of it. You're hurt, remember?" He walked around 
the front of the car and climbed in behind the steering wheel.

"I didn't climb into this one, either. You carried me, *remember*?"

He started the car and looked over at her. "Shouldn't you be . . . 
shutting up or resting or something."

"Janet was right," she mumbled. Jack could be a shit.

"About what?"

Millie glared at him. "That this was going to be painful."

He squinted at her, obviously trying to figure out her meaning.

"Hey, you two." Janet leaned in the open driver's side window. "I'll meet 
you at the emergency room."

"Sure you don't want to come with us, Doc? It's a sweet ride." Jack 
revved the motor and slipped the gear shift into reverse, obviously in a 
hurry to leave.

"No, I need my car. Sam's going to take Cassie home."

"Janet," Millie peeked around Jack, "I really think this is a waste of 
time."

"Listen up," Jack gave Millie the same look that he probably gave new 
recruits, "you're going. If Doc says you need an x-ray, you need an x-
ray. She's a doctor, for crying out loud. She knows what she's talking 
about."

"But I-"

"Aahh!" He held up a hand. "Decision's made."

"Uh, thank you, sir. And you're probably right, Millie. I'm sure it is a 
waste of time. You probably just have a bone bruise, but we need to be 
sure. So, I'll see you there."

As Jack drove towards the local hospital, Millie sank down in her seat. 
She couldn't believe this. She was totally embarrassed and humiliated. 
Daniel and Murray and Sam were probably having a good laugh right about 
now. Well, maybe not Murray. She was beginning to think he never laughed 
about anything.

Jack rolled up his window and turned on the headlights. "You okay?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm just dandy. Thank you very much for asking."

"Listen, I'm sorry you got hurt."

"Why? It wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't anybody's. It was just an accident."

Millie snorted softly.

He glanced over at her. "What?"

"It was my own damn fault."

"How so?"

Millie shrugged, currently the only guest at her pity party. "I should 
never have gone."

Jack was quiet for a long time and she was beginning to think he agreed 
with her. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. "I'm sorry. I 
thought you'd have fun."

"What, you think I don't have any friends of my own? I need you to throw 
me a bone?"

"*What*?" He shook his head and she saw his fingers tighten on the 
steering wheel. "Dammit. You . . . crap! That really pisses me off. You 
think I invited you because I feel sorry for you?"

Millie didn't answer. When he said it out loud, it sounded childish and 
petulant. She really hoped she was neither of those things.

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe I like your company? That maybe I 
thought you'd enjoy hanging out with my team? That they might enjoy 
getting to know you?"

She chewed on her lip. She kind of hoped her hip was broken. Maybe it 
would make her feel better. "You like my company?"

"Right now?"

She figured they both knew the answer to that one. They drove on in 
silence. As she stared out the windshield, the lights of the hospital 
appeared in the distance.

"Jack, Sam's a scientist. Daniel speaks a bunch of languages. Murray's . 
. . well, I'm not sure what Murray is, to be perfectly honest. Janet's a 
damned doctor. And you . . . well, I don't really know what you do 
either, but I'm sure it's important. I, on the other hand, clean your 
house. I scrape icky, green, moldy stuff from the inside of your 
refrigerator and make sure you're stocked up on toilet paper."

"Which I appreciate, by the way. But what is your point?"

"My point is, you guys are . . . I don't know. You're out of my league."

"You're in a league?"

"Don't be an ass, Jack. You know what I mean."

"Actually, I don't. I just thought you were a person, like the rest of 
us. You know, someone who puts on her pants one leg at a time, who takes 
a dump occasionally, and farts when she thinks no one's around. Somebody 
who's funny and obnoxious and smart and has guts. I didn't realize you 
were in a league."

"Me? Smart?"

He shrugged.

"You think I'm smart like Sam?"

He barked a laugh. "Hell, no. No one's smart like Sam. But, trust me, she 
has her blonde moments."

"And I have guts?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"You jump out of planes, right? I'm afraid biscuit tins will explode in 
my face, and I kill spiders with hairspray and a hiking boot."

"You, too?" He waited until she stopped laughing before continuing. "You 
quit a good job because your boss was a jerk. You stand up for what you 
believe in and you make your own way. You don't depend on anyone but 
yourself. And, you scrape that icky, green, moldy stuff from my 
refrigerator. I wouldn't touch that with a ten-foot pole."

Jack stopped the Nomad in front of the emergency room doors and got out, 
walking around to her side of the car. When she opened the door, he knelt 
down beside her.

"Brit, you are who you are. Don't measure yourself against other people. 
You get into their skin, they've got problems, too. Trust me. I've . . . 
well, let's just say I have some unique experience in that area. 
Besides," he squeezed her shoulder, "I really do, you know . . . well, I 
mean, you're sort of growing on me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He smiled. "And I don't mean growing like that icky, green stuff 
either."

"Damn, Jack. I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"What can I say? I'm an old softie." He slipped his arms beneath her and 
lifted her out of the car.

"You don't have to carry me. I'm pretty sure I can walk by myself."

"You know, Brit, for some reason, I have absolutely no doubt about that."

Smiling down at her, Jack cradled her against his chest and carried her 
inside.

<fin>

                         *******************

This Nest of Sparrows - One False Step
By Charli Booker - charli.booker@netzero.com


RATING: FR-T

WARNINGS: A teeny, tiny bit of potty-mouth 

CATEGORY: Drama, Humor

PAIRING: Maybe in her dreams....

SPOILERS: None

TIME FRAME: Season 2.  #5 in The Sparrows Series

SUMMARY: The continuing saga of Millie Guthro and the World According to 
Jack.  Sometimes, the only way you can really get to know someone is to 
show them a little bit of yourself first.

DISCLAIMER: 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.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Robert Stone said, "Life is a means of extracting 
fiction."  I'm not sure if this is true, but it certainly makes me feel 
better when something dreadful, something horridly wrong happens.  It 
allows me to step back, to objectively look at the situation, and then to 
quite sanely say, "Oh, this didn't happen to me at all.  It happened to 
Millie."  So, thank you, Millie, for extracting all the crap from my life 
and turning it into a Jack moment.


                         *******************

I watch, and am become like a sparrow that is alone upon the house-top.  
Psalms 102:7

"Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure.
The fearful are caught as often as the bold."   Helen Keller

                         *******************

"So, what's his name?"

"Who?"

Millie could almost hear Aunt Bertha's lips hardening through the phone 
lines.  "Don't 'who' me, young lady.  *Him*."

"Him who?"  Mother'd always said her sister's cornbread wasn't all baked.  
Millie, who'd always defended her aunt, was now beginning to see the 
light at the back of the oven.

"You're seeing someone, aren't you?"  It was more an accusation than a 
question.

"I am?"

"Mildred Elaine Guthro!"

Sitting at her kitchen table, the telephone cradled between her ear and 
her shoulder, Millie pulled the protective plastic wrap from the latest 
Mariah Carey CD - the one she'd deny that she'd ever listen to in a 
million years, let alone buy.  Like Dirk Jenkins, her forty-something 
neighbor who still lived with his mommy and who still answered to the 
name of 'Dirkie,' the plastic wrap clung to her with a tenaciousness that 
bordered on the pathetic.

"Aunt Bertha, if you're going to take my name in vain, could you at least 
get it right?  It's Millicent, not Mildred."

"Don't get smart with me, young lady!  Now, stop avoiding the question."

"Honest to God, I've forgotten what the question was."  Frowning, Millie 
pulled the plastic wrap from her left hand; it stuck to her right.

"Don't swear.  The question was: what is the name of the young man with 
whom you are so besotted."

"I'm not 'besotted' with anyone."  Not much.  She tucked a corner of the 
plastic wrap under the leg of her jeans and pulled her hand free.

"How old is he?"

"Fifty-ish."  Millie smirked at the soft gasp on the other end of the 
line, then frowned at the ensuing silence.  "Aunt Bertha?"

"He's old enough-"

"To be my older brother.  An uncle maybe.  But not my father, so don't 
even say it."

"And his name?"

Millie stared at Mariah's chubby-cheeked, smiling face.  Some things were 
best enjoyed in private.  "He's in the Air Force."

"Good Lord!  He's a *pilot*?"

"Calm down.  He doesn't even know I exist.  I mean, of course, he does 
but . . . he doesn't."

"Are you pregnant?"

"*What*?"

"He's not married, is he?  Oh, please, Millicent, tell me he's not 
married."

Millie set the CD on the table and walked to the sink, the plastic wrap 
softly crackling with every other step.  She poured herself a glass of 
water she didn't want and, still cradling the phone with her shoulder, 
stared out the small window that looked onto the neighboring apartment 
building.  "You know . . . you're right, Aunt Bertha.  He's married.  
He's married and we're screwing like bunnies.  Every Tuesday and Friday.  
Like clockwork."

"I do not want to hear this."

"He's the funniest, most handsome, most annoying man I've ever met.  He 
has sexy grey hair, long legs, a lean, hard body, and the most gorgeous 
smile I've ever seen.  It ought to be against the law."

"It just may be."

"And he pays me, Aunt Bertha.  He pays me and the funny thing is, I'd 
probably do it for free."

In the lengthy silence that followed, Millie swallowed the water then, 
with an angry swipe, pulled the plastic wrap from her jeans and wiped it 
onto the side of the cool glass like a nasty booger.  Like a nasty 
booger, it stuck there.

"You're quite the little comedienne, aren't you?  Always have been."  
Aunt Bertha's mood shifted through the earpiece, and Millie both 
appreciated and resented what she knew was coming.  "Has this man hurt 
you?"

She smiled at the very thought.  If Aunt Bertha only knew.  "Jack would 
never hurt me."

"Jack, huh?"

Millie set the glass in the sink.  "I need to go.  I have a headache."

"Yes.  Go rehearse your little comedy routine."

"Aunt Bertha . . ."

"I know, dear.  I love you, too.  Oh, and Millie . . ."

"Yeah?"

"A little aspirin."

"Aspirin?"

"Held between the knees makes the best . . ."

"Birth control.  Yes, I know."

Laying the phone on the counter, Millie continued to stare out the window 
at the red brick wall that blocked any view she might have had of Pikes 
Peak or anything else that might have made a difference in her outlook.  
Chewing the inside of her lip, she turned on the faucet, oblivious to the 
sheet of plastic which curled slightly, reluctantly relinquished its 
hold, and then silently swirled down the drain, as uncelebrated and 
unnoticed as a mama's boy named Dirkie.

                         *******************

"Could you maybe not do that?"

Millie stopped in the midst of dusting and stared over at him.  Jack was 
seated at the small, neat desk in the corner of the room that served as 
his office and family room.  "Do what?  Dust?"

"No."  A long finger marking his place on the check register and the 
other hand poised above a calculator, he glanced at her.  "That humming 
thing you're doing."

Millie always hummed while she worked.  She didn't plan it that way; it 
just . . . happened.  It was a habit that annoyed her as much as it 
apparently did everyone else, mainly because her mother had done the same 
thing and Millie hated to think that she did things merely because her 
mother and father had once upon a time, long, long ago, engaged in a 
sexual act.  She was an independent person.  She had enough problems 
without inheriting someone else's crap.  "I always hum."

With a look that made her toes curl - and not in a good way - Jack turned 
back to balancing his checkbook.  "Yeah.  Tell me about it."

Ass!  Sticking out her tongue at the back of his head, Millie went back 
to work.  She wiped dust from an eclectic selection of books ranging on 
subjects from astronomy to herb gardening to engineering, and she hummed 
. . . loudly.

It took less than a minute, and she smiled to herself at the soft grunt 
and the scrape of the chair legs on the hardwood floor.

Mess with her, would he?

                         *******************

"Why are you so . . . difficult?"

Millie jumped, nearly dropping the casserole dish that she was putting in 
the oven.  Glancing over her shoulder at Jack, who was leaning against 
the doorjamb with his hands shoved in the pockets of his baggy chinos, 
she went back to what she was doing.  Centering the dish in the center of 
the rack, she closed the oven door, set the timer, and wiped her hands on 
a dish towel before turning to face him.

"I'm sorry, were you speaking to me?"

"Thus proving my point," he muttered.

Millie frowned and turned back towards the counter.  "I'm not difficult.  
I'm . . .," she wiped off the counter and rinsed out the dishrag before 
finding the word she was looking for, "I'm complex."

"Ha!  What fortune cookie did you pull that out of?"

Millie turned around and leaned back against the counter.  Jack had 
crossed his arms as if he were planning on staying a while.  "Actually, 
it's 'out of what fortune cookie did you pull that'."

Jack frowned and shook his head.  "What's your problem today?"

"Maybe I don't have a problem.  Maybe you're the one with the problem, 
Mr. I Hate Anyone Who Hums."

"*What*?"  Jack straightened and shook his head as if trying to clean out 
his ears.  "My God, Brit, I think you've lost it.  I really do.  I 
haven't seen anyone this irrational since my ex-wife went off on one of 
her monthly tangents."  Jack suddenly stopped and blushed.  "Oh.  Uh-"

Millie felt like she'd been slapped in public.  Better yet, maybe this 
was what it felt like to be kicked in the nuts.  Slowly, she walked 
towards him.  Maybe if she kicked *him* in the nuts, they could compare 
notes.  As if reading her thoughts, Jack backed out of the doorway, 
making room for her to squeeze by.  Millie stopped in front of him, so 
close she could feel the heat from his chest on her face.

"You know what you are, Jack?" she whispered.

He forced a smile and shrugged.  "A sensitive kind of guy?"

Millie laughed softly and nodded.  "No.  You're a bitch.  A bona fide, 
class A bitch."

"But-"

"Aagh!"  She held up a finger, silencing him.  "If I were you, I'd 
carefully consider what's getting ready to come out of your mouth.  I can 
slip a deadly little something in your tuna casserole and plead the PMS 
defense before the toxin even hits your bloodstream."

Jack blanched and looked towards the oven.

"Exactly."  Millie reached up towards Jack's neck and he flinched.  
Smiling, she pulled a loose string off his t-shirt.  "Now, if you'll 
excuse me, I have to go try to get some weird brown stains out of your 
toilet."

                         *******************

There was something cleansing about cleaning.  Like the bleach she poured 
into the porcelain bowl, the act of cleaning seemed to take one of two 
routes: it would either remove all traces of her anger, or it would 
simply leave it there, burnished down to its purest form.  Millie sat 
back on her heels, flushed the toilet, and watched as clear water swirled 
around the sides of the gleaming tank.  She could only wish the direction 
of her anger was as apparent.  Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing 
which swirling vortex it would take until she saw the signpost that 
looked deceptively like a tall, lean Air Force colonel.

Her nostrils assailed by the familiar, heady aroma of the chemical blend, 
she wiped an arm across her sweaty forehead.  She opened the cabinet 
under the sink and grunting, stretched to shove the various bottles of 
cleaners in the back of the vanity behind the extra toilet paper and the 
. . . she frowned . . . the large box of super, heavy duty tampons.

Damn!  She could have sworn she'd seen every episode of that unsolved 
mystery show - the one with Eliot Ness from 'The Untouchables.'  So, how 
was it that she'd never seen the composite drawing of Jack on there?  The 
man was as elusive as the mysterious Sasquatch, as deceptive as any 
world-renowned con artist, as wanted as any-

Millie blushed, despite being totally alone and kneeling at the foot of 
the throne where Jack O'Neill did unspeakable acts.  She cleared her 
throat, forced down the warm rush of Harlequin-like throbbing in her 
veins, and prepared to meet the King of Flatulence.  She smiled.  That 
helped temper her raging hormones.  Flatulence.  Maybe she could bottle 
it, and sell it like smelling salts - Brown Cloud, The Pure Essence of 
Man.

Smiling, Millie followed the sound of Jack's voice to the living room.

"Thirty-eight," she announced, before realizing that Daniel Jackson was 
sitting on the sofa across from Jack, who was perched on the edge of the 
armchair using an empty Diet Dr. Pepper can to demonstrate baseball 
physics.

Jack stopped mid-throw and looked at her.

"Uh," Daniel frowned and his mouth moved, but nothing else came out.

"Daniel, careful," Jack quietly warned, and he shook his head once, but 
never took his eyes off Millie.

She waited, but neither man moved or spoke.  *Chickenshits*.  "Did you 
hear me?"

Jack grimaced slightly and lowered the can, resting it on his knee.  
"Um," he swallowed, glanced at Daniel, and then looked at her, his 
expression unreadable.  "Yes.  Yes, we heard you."

"Um, Millie," Daniel lifted a hand, "I think-"

"Daniel!"  Jack glared at his friend.  "Can it!"

"But-"

Jack sliced a long finger across his own throat, effectively silencing 
the younger man.  Concluding their brief, unspoken communication, the men 
turned simultaneously and looked at Millie.

"Well?"  She took a step closer, stopping at the edge of the coffee table 
which already sported a wet, can-sized ring identical to the one she'd 
polished away not two hours previous.

Jack licked his lips and bounced the bottom edge of the can against his 
leg.  "Well, what?"

"Thirty-eight.  What does that bring to mind?"

Jack blushed and Daniel Jackson blinked.  They traded a quick, almost 
instantaneous glance, then looked back at her.

When he finally spoke, Jack's voice was uncharacteristically hesitant.  
"C?"

Millie frowned.  "See?  See what?"

"Nothing," he answered, too quickly.

"What?  Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?"

Daniel frowned at his shoes.  "No, but-"

Jack coughed . . . loudly.

"Geez.  It's a simple question."  Millie sighed and put her hands on her 
hips.  Jack flinched and squeezed the can, crushing it with a hollow, 
metallic crunch.  "What do you think of when I say thirty-eight?"

"Mary Steenburgen?" Jack tried again.

Daniel choked back a laugh.

"*What*?"  Men!

"What?" Jack dead-panned.  "You asked what I thought of when you said 
thirty-eight."

"And you thought you saw Mary Steenburgen?"  Yeah, obviously, Millie had 
missed a few episodes of 'America's Most Wanted,' as well, particularly 
the one where the tall man had escaped from a local mental institution 
and was passing himself off as an officer in the military.

"Well," Jack shrugged, "no, but it seemed like the . . . safest answer."  
He started to wipe sweat from his forehead, then realized he was still 
holding the deformed can.  He carefully balanced it on the coffee table, 
and then bounced both legs in a jerky, awkward rhythm that had to wreak 
havoc on his somewhat gimpy knees.  "Millie, are you trying to, well, 
tell us something?"

D'uh.  She forced a tight, unhappy smile.  "Today's my birthday."

"*Really*?" Daniel seemed to perk up and met her gaze at last.

"And you want us to . . ." Jack prodded.

"You.  I want you-"

Jack shot out of his chair.  "*Me*?"

"I want you to tell me what you think of when you think of someone who's 
thirty-eight years old."

Jack chuckled, and dropped back onto his chair.  "Oh, thank God."

Millie frowned at him.

He straightened his spine.  "I mean, well, uh, what do I think of thirty-
eight year olds?  Hmm."  Jack looked over at Daniel.  "That's about your 
age, isn't it, Doctor Jackson?"

"Not quite," Daniel said, looking and sounding offended.

"Okay.  But close."  Jack glanced at Millie, then quickly looked back at 
Daniel.  "Thirty-eight.  Thirty-eight.  I think . . . I think . . .," he 
squinted his eyes and looked at Millie.  "Okay, I've got nothing."

"Exactly!"  Millie gave him a genuine smile.

"What?"

"Nothing.  Thirty-eight years old and I've nothing to show for it."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that exactly," Daniel mumbled.

Putting her hands on her hips again, Millie leaned towards him.  "Well, 
look at you."

"*What*?"  Daniel looked down at his lap, then sighed.  "Oh, crap.  You 
scared me."

"I mean," Millie reached down and swiped at the wet ring on the table, 
"you're younger than me, and you're a doctor and you speak a bunch of 
languages or something, and you do important stuff.  Am I right?"

"Well," Jack smiled over at Daniel, "I wouldn't call it important 
exactly.  More like boring."

"Okay.  Then, what about you?" Millie pointed at Jack.

"What about me?" Jack grimaced.

"You're a Colonel in the Air Force."

"And I'm old enough to be your-"

"Uncle."  Millie frowned at Jack.  "So, do you see?"

"Well, actually," Jack blinked, "yes."

"Jack, I thought you said not to-"

"Shut up, Daniel.  Millie," a distasteful look on his face, Jack stood up 
and approached her, his eyes focused on some vague point over her left 
shoulder, "come with me."

"What?  Why?"

He grabbed her shoulders, forcibly turned her around, and shoved her 
towards the step leading to the kitchen or, if there really was a fairy 
godmother, the bedrooms.

"Let's take this to the kitchen, shall we?"

Okay, well, there was always Santa.

Millie preceded Jack into the kitchen, taking a moment to glance through 
the window in the oven door at the bubbling casserole before turning back 
to face the man who would be King of Flatulence.

"Okay, Brit, I have just two words of advice for you.  You ready?  
'Cause, I gotta tell you, this is pretty heady stuff and I don't plan on 
repeating any of it."

Millie leaned back, resting her elbows on the counter.  Jack blushed and 
appeared to undergo an inner struggle with something that Millie could 
only guess at.  "This ought to be good, coming from Mr. Sensitive Guy."

"Just . . .," he made a shooing motion with his hand, "never mind.  
Anyway, point one:  You're feeling sorry for yourself.  You know that, 
right?"

Millie shrugged.

"Well, stop it.  It's . . . it's unbecoming."

"*Unbecoming*?"  God, had he been talking to Aunt Bertha?  Next thing you 
know, he'd be spouting off about how it wasn't seemly that she was 
besotted with him, her boss, her . . . elder.

"Yeah.  You know, it's . . . well, it makes you look bad."

"Well, we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

He cocked his head.  "No.  We wouldn't.  Besides, it's stupid and it's a 
waste of time."

"So, now I'm stupid *and* I hum?"

Jack growled, "And complex.  Don't forget complex."

"I'm thirty-eight and I don't even know what I want to be when I grow up.  
How complex is that, I ask you."

He roughly scrubbed a hand through his already messy hair, bit his lip as 
he seemed to think about what he wanted to say, and then took a deep 
breath.  "Brit, do you want to know what I was doing when I turned 
thirty-eight?"

"Okay, I'll bite.  What were you doing when you turned thirty-eight, 
Jack?"

"I was getting ready to bury my ten-year old kid."

Oh, God.  Millie stood up straight.  She'd been wrong:  *This* was what 
it felt like to be slapped in public.  *This* was what it felt like to be 
kicked in the nuts.  And *she* was the bitch here, not Jack.  "Oh, geez.  
Damn, Jack, I'm . . . I'm so-"

He held up a hand.  "Stop.  Please, don't . . . just don't do that.  
That's not why I told you, okay?  So, whatever you do, don't tell me 
you're sorry."

She nodded dumbly.

"My point is, I don't know anybody who's where they thought they would be 
when they're, well, whatever age they are.  I mean, Daniel watched his 
parents get killed when he was eight years old, spent years tangled up in 
the foster care system because he had a granddad who was too busy to take 
care of his own grandson, and now he's lost his wife.  And Carter?  Hell, 
she's gone through so many fiancés and boyfriends that if any more croak, 
you're going to be seeing her face on the evening news.  I won't *even* 
delve into the mysterious life of Murray.  And me?  I bury my son and let 
my marriage fall apart.  For crying out loud, who asks for that?  And the 
kicker is, not a damned one of us is getting any younger.  Am I making 
any sense here, Brit?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"So you're thirty-eight, so what?  Who gives a shit?  This is a life-
changing event, how?"

Millie shrugged again, and bit her lip so she wouldn't tell him how sorry 
she was - not just for acting like a spoiled brat, but because the 
pictures scattered around his house had just taken on a poignancy she'd 
never have imagined.  Instead, she forced a timid smile.  "I still got my 
health.  There's that."

Jack stared at her, stunned, then he smiled.  "Yeah.  That's always a 
good thing.  At least you're not piddling yourself or anything.  I mean . 
. . you're not yet, right?"

"Nope."

"Which kinda brings me to my second point."

"Oh, yeah.  Your second point."

Jack blushed again and pointed at her.  "You might want to consider . . . 
well, not doing that."

"What?"

"I mean, I take it as a compliment, I really do, but I think you're 
giving Daniel the wrong idea."

"What?"  Millie looked down at herself.

Oh, shit!  Holy freakin' Toledo!  Okay.  Okay, now she could just die.  
Just crawl off somewhere into a deep, deep hole and die.  But slowly . . 
. not until she'd had a chance to sit down and review in minute detail 
the entire scene in the living room.  Not until she'd had a chance to 
replay everything she'd said and everything they'd said, and watch in 
slow motion as every word and look and blush took on a whole new, horrid, 
perverted, and entirely crappy connotation.

Unable to move, Millie stared down at her breasts, which were almost 
*barely* still stuffed inside her newest, peek-a-boo pink, wonder-of-
wonders-it-did-give-me-cleavage bra, which was almost *barely* still 
stuffed inside her shirt.  While the former garment was obviously 
delivering as promised, sadly, the latter had managed - probably at some 
point during her sojourn in the throne room - to slip approximately four 
buttons.

Jack laughed, softly.

It took everything she had to look up at him, and when she did, he had a 
big, stupid grin on his face that immediately brought hot tears of 
embarrassment to her eyes.  And she didn't cry, dammit!  Millicent Elaine 
Guthro did not cry!  And she especially didn't cry in front of Jack 
O'Neill!

"Oh, shit."  Jack stopped laughing and was across the kitchen quicker 
than Millie thought a guy his age could move.  "Oh, damn, Millie, don't 
cry."  And then those long arms were wrapped around her, and her face was 
being pressed into his t-shirt, which smelled partly like Tide and partly 
like those dryer sheets that she shoved in all his dresser drawers.

"I'm not crying," she cried against his firm chest.

"Sshh."  Jack's grip on her tightened, and a hand draped itself across 
the back of her head and began softly stroking her hair like she was his 
favorite pet.  "I'm sorry.  We should have said something, but we just . 
. . please, *please* don't cry."

His arms felt good.  His chest was just like she'd imagined - hard and 
muscled.  Even his words were nice.  Tentatively, she let her hands rest 
on his waist, one on each side.  He was thin, but softer there than she'd 
imagined, and when he spoke, his breath made her scalp tickle.  She 
allowed herself a moment.  It was, after all, her birthday.  She counted 
to thirty-eight, slowly, before pushing away from him and staring up at 
his face.

"I can't believe I flashed you."
 
One arm still around her, Jack reached up and wiped her wet cheeks with 
his fingers.  "It was no big deal."

"Geez!  How can you say that?"

"What?"

"I flash you my boobs, and you say it's no big deal?  How insulting!"

"Okay, okay."  He pulled away from her.  "Just . . . just keep your shirt 
on, Brit.  That's not what I meant."

"Keep my shirt on?  That's *not* funny, Jack."

He grinned.  "It's kinda funny."

Millie looked down, then began to slowly button her shirt.  What was the 
hurry?  He could probably pick them out of a titty line-up anyway.  Thank 
goodness she hadn't done laundry last night, and she'd been forced to 
wear her good bra instead of the old, dingy-white, stretched-out one.  
"All right.  It was kinda funny."

Jack chuckled, and patted her on the arm.  "How about, once you're 
decent, Daniel and I take you out for a birthday dinner?  We'll save the 
casserole for later."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Okay.  That'd be nice, Jack."

Still smiling, Jack studied her a moment, then shook his head, and left 
the room.  Millie finished buttoning up, turned off the oven, and set the 
casserole on the stove top.  As she made her way to the living room, she 
smiled as she overheard Jack telling Daniel that naked people who hummed 
always gave him a headache.

Well, she didn't know about the 'always' part, but at least she was able 
to give Jack something.  After all, he'd just managed to give her a 
birthday she'd never forget.

<finis>

                         *******************

This Nest of Sparrows - Show and Tell
By Charli Booker - charli.booker@netzero.com


RATING: FR-T

WARNINGS: A teeny, tiny bit of potty-mouth 

CATEGORY: Drama, Humor, Hurt/Comfort

PAIRING: Maybe in her dreams....

SPOILERS:  Show and Tell

TIME FRAME: Season 2.  #6 in The Sparrows Series

SUMMARY: The continuing saga of Millie Guthro and the World According to 
Jack.  Life at Jack's house can be a song.

DISCLAIMER: 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.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks, Lynette, for the beta!  When I started this, I 
was feeling nostalgic.  Then, I began feeling a bit depressed when I 
realized just how many of these little tunes I can still hum by heart.  
But, those baby blue boxers - or the lack thereof - pulled me out of my 
depression and put a smile on my perverted face.


                         *******************

I watch, and am become like a sparrow that is alone upon the house-top.  
Psalms 102:7

A child of five would understand this. Send someone to fetch a child of 
five.  Groucho Marx

                         *******************

Millie couldn't say that the Good Lord didn't try to spare her.  And not 
just once.  Two times He took the time, made a real effort, to try to 
stop her.  Two times she ignored him.  Apparently, the Almighty had never 
heard of the old 'third time's a charm' rule.

                         *******************

'Baby It's Cold Outside' - 9:17 a.m. - Attempt No. 1

Smiling, Millie eased the cumbersome Nomad into the driveway behind 
Jack's truck.  Then, she spied a bright splash of color in what should 
have been a mostly winter-grey landscape.  In defiance of the ominous 
weather, Samantha Carter's sports car was parked at the curbside in front 
of the house.

Setting the emergency brake, Millie shut off the engine and bit her lip, 
trying hard not to frown.  She liked Samantha.  She really did.  Samantha 
had been nothing but nice to her.  It was just, Millie found her . . . 
intimidating . . . in a weird sort of way.  In a long-legged, beautiful, 
brave, I-know-him-better-than-you-ever-will sort of way.

Millie opened the car door.

                         *******************

'Tennessee Bird Walk' - 9:18 a.m. - Attempt No. 2

Millie slammed the door of the Nomad shut with the solid, reassuring 
thunk of they-don't-make-'em-like-they-used-to American ingenuity, took 
one step towards Jack's front door, and slammed onto her ass so hard that 
her teeth knocked together and she saw stars.  Up close and at 
approximately eye level, she could see the clever film of black ice that 
coated Jack's driveway like an evil layer of skin.

A strange, worrisome, tingling pain shooting across the bottom of her 
butt cheeks, she crawled over to the frosted grass, pushed herself 
awkwardly to her feet, and baby-stepped her way to the front door.

                         *******************

'Fools Rush In' - 9:20 a.m.

Samantha Carter pulled open the front door before Millie even had a 
chance to grab the handle to steady herself.

"Millie!"  Samantha sounded excited to see her.  In retrospect, Millie 
decided that Samantha had sounded perhaps a bit *too* excited.  So, maybe 
the Good Lord had made a third attempt after all.  Maybe third times 
aren't a charm . . . not even for Him.  Maybe they never had been, and it 
was just an ugly rumor started by some jealous, over-dressed, nasty God-
wannabe.

"Hi, Samantha."

"It's 'Sam,'" the blonde quietly corrected, stepping back to make room 
for Millie to enter.

Chewing her lip, apparently deep in thought, Sam watched as Millie peeled 
away layer after layer of hat, scarf, gloves, anorak, fleece, and knee-
high Sorels.  Finally, her butt still twinging, and feeling even more 
diminutive as she stood sock-footed in the shadow of the tall, slender 
Captain, Millie looked around.

"Where's Jack?"

"Huh?  Oh," Sam blinked as if awakening from a deep sleep, "he's . . . uh 
. . . he's . . . listen, Millie, could you do me a favor?"

"I don't know.  What is it?"

Sam reached for a jacket hanging on the peg between Millie's slightly 
trendy Land's End collection and Jack's faded North Face.  "I'm supposed 
to stay here with the Colonel, but I really, *really* need to take care 
of something back at the lab."

"The lab?"

"Uh," Sam slipped into the jacket and zipped up, smiling, "my office.  
Anyway, do you think you could keep an eye on him for a while?"  Without 
waiting for an answer, Sam darted down into the living room, and Millie 
watched as the woman hurriedly shoved papers, files and a computer into a 
laptop bag.

"Keep an eye on him?"

"Um," Sam lifted the cushions on the sofa in a desperate search for 
something.  Finally, she muttered a soft curse and a 'never mind,' and 
latched the bag while on her way to the front door.  "Yeah, I mean, he 
should be fine.  He's sleeping right now."  She grabbed the door handle, 
a large smile plastered on her face.

"*Wait a minute*."  Sam froze at Millie's words.  "What do you mean 'he 
should be fine'?  What the hell's the matter with him?"

"Oh," impossibly, the smile widened, looking more like the product of a 
muscle cramp than joy, "he's got a," Sam waggled a hand towards her 
stomach, "he's got a thing with his . . . with his . . . shoulder."

"What kind of thing?"

"He was shot."

"Oh my God!"

"Oh, no, it's okay.  It's no big deal, really.  He'll be fine.  Janet 
just didn't want him here alone.  She's got him on some pretty heavy duty 
painkillers."

"He was *shot*?  During a *training* exercise?"

"Huh?"  Sam looked momentarily at a loss for words before rousing herself 
and opening the door.  "Oh, yeah.  Yeah.  It happens all the time."

"It *does*?"

"Well, not *all* the time, but it happens a lot more than people realize.  
Anyway," Sam looked down at her wrist, the one without the watch, "I'm 
running late.  I really do need to go.  You don't mind, do you?  I really 
appreciate this.  His meds are on the table.  Janet's number's on the 
fridge.  If you need anything, I'll . . . well, I'll see if Daniel can 
swing by later to relieve you."

"But-"

"This is so great.  It's such a help."  Sam was backing out the door, 
pulling it closed despite Millie's desperate attempt to hold it open.  "I 
really appreciate it.  *Really*.  You . . . you have no idea.  Thanks!"

The door slammed shut with such force that Millie flinched.  Wondering 
exactly what had just happened, she peeked out the window by the door, 
and watched Sam's hurried walk across the treacherous lawn.  Sam opened 
the trunk of the sports car, tossed the laptop bag inside, slammed the 
lid, then climbed into the driver's seat.  Millie heard the soft throb of 
the motor, and frowned as she saw Sam lean her forehead against the 
steering wheel.  Finally, just when Millie was contemplating pulling on 
her Sorels and risking another fall, Sam straightened, grinned, and 
peeled out from the curb.

                         *******************

'Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You' - 9:28 a.m.

Could he *be* any cuter?

Millie stood beside the bed staring down at a sleeping Jack O'Neill.  He 
was laying on his back, the covers kicked down to his waist, baring his 
naked torso.  A large, neat bandage covered his right shoulder, and a 
discarded sling lay on the floor next to the bed.  A weak, winter sun 
peeked through the blinds, highlighting a soft sprinkling of hair in the 
center of his chest.

Sighing, Millie studied the outline of his legs hidden beneath the thin 
layer of sheet and blanket; one limb was bent at the knee and the other 
was stretched out straight, his foot sticking out from under the sheet 
and dangling off the end of the bed.  The injured arm was tucked against 
his side, but the other was thrown across the width of the bed.  Even in 
the dim light she could see the definition of a firm bicep, the strange 
knot on the elbow, the long forearm, and the fingers splayed out across 
the wrinkled sheet.

For some reason, Jack's hands always fascinated her.  She'd catch herself 
watching them.  It didn't matter what he was doing - leafing through a 
newspaper, holding something, fidgeting, or even now when they were 
motionless.  She felt compelled to study them; it sometimes took all of 
her willpower not to reach out and just touch them.  For a brief second, 
it dawned on her that she could probably touch them now and he'd never 
know.

Fighting the urge, she glanced at his face, slack in sleep and - wonder 
of wonders - almost innocent looking.  Grey hair was sticking up and out 
in sharp, tangled tufts, and Millie could suddenly envision a ten-year 
old Jack who looked much like this version, only smaller and less worn.

He looked pale, but Millie knew that if she laid her arm against his 
skin, his tan would become apparent.  Leaning over the bed, she squinted 
in the dim light, studying his face.  Out like Jose Hernandez.  Biting 
her tongue, she reached down and very gently touched the hand that was 
resting against his hip.  Jack flinched and his fingers curled slightly.

When Millie looked at his face, he was watching her, his eyes nothing 
more than dark, glassy slits.

"Jack?" she whispered.

There was no response except for a soft sigh.  The guy was in the 
Darvocet zone.

                         *******************

'No More Mr. Nice Guy' - 11:03 a.m.

Jell-O(r) was firming in the refrigerator; Jack's meds were lined up in 
an orderly row on the counter; a pan of Campbell's Chunky(r) was sitting 
on the stove top just waiting to be heated; and Millie was sitting at the 
dining room table.  In the background, Sheryl Crow was talking about how 
every day was a winding road.  The woman was pretty, talented, and rich.  
She hadn't a clue.  She couldn't have.

Millie stared past the open pages of the paperback she'd pulled off of 
Jack's bookshelf, looking at her sock feet and wondering if she should 
start painting her toenails.  She'd always made it a habit to cover her 
feet.  Maybe if she started painting her toenails, putting them out there 
in the big, wide world, things would change.

She glanced back at the printed page, then rubbed her eyes.  Apparently, 
Jack O'Neill didn't believe in an easy read.  Ayn Rand was the lightest 
fare she'd found . . . well, except for a slim paperback having to do 
with hot military babes.  Unfortunately, female porn was not to her 
liking, and Rand not only bored her to tears, the whole message went over 
her head.

Millie hated to admit it, but for a smart girl, she sometimes wasn't all 
that bright.  She wanted to be hit in the face with a billboard, not have 
to interpret some subliminal message buried in a pile of words so deep 
and convoluted that every other one looked like the one immediately 
preceding it.

"Carter!"

She dropped the book at the loud yell that emanated from Jack's bedroom.

"Carter!"

It took a second for her to realize that she was the only one here.  No 
one else was going to answer.

"Get your butt in here and give me a hand!"

Millie hurried down the hallway to the bedroom.  Jack was sitting on the 
side of the bed, seriously canted to one side with his injured arm tucked 
tightly across his abdomen.  At the sound of her entry, he squinted up at 
her.

"*Millie*?"

"Hey, Jack."  She stepped into the room, trying not to notice how he'd 
tossed back the covers and was sitting there in nothing but a pair of 
baby blue boxer shorts.

"What are you doing here?  Where's Carter?"

"She . . . uh . . . had something she had to do.  She asked me to stay 
for a while."

"Bullshit," he mumbled.  Bleary-eyed, he glanced at the clock on the 
night stand, then looked back over at her.

"What do you need, Jack?  I'll get it for you."

"Nothing."

"You want something to eat?  There's some soup.  Jell-O(r)?  Tea?  
Anything?"

He frowned at her.  "What color Jell-O(r)?"

"Um . . . red.  Strawberry, I think."

"No thanks."

Millie started to sit down on the foot of the bed, then stopped when she 
saw him wince.  "When did you take your last pain pill?"

He shrugged, then grabbed his arm at the movement.  "How the hell should 
I know?  I was drugged at the time."

Millie chuckled and he glared at her.  "I'll get you one.  You look like 
you need it."  She started to leave.

"Carter's a chickenshit, and Daniel's a whiney-ass baby."

Millie glanced back at him.  "Okay."

"And for the record, I *hate* red Jell-O(r)."

"All-righty then."  Millie smiled and scrambled for the Darvocet.

                         *******************

'Hang on Sloopy' - 11:58 a.m.

"You doing okay, Jack?"

Millie sat on the side of bed.  Jack was sitting up, his back against the 
headboard and the sheet pulled up around his waist.  The bowl of melting, 
red Jell-O(r) was precariously perched on his lap threatening to dump 
itself in the middle of the bed.  She was tempted to reach over and 
straighten it, but the bowl was sitting right on top of his . . . 
anatomy.

Jack dropped the spoon back into the bowl and leaned his head back, his 
eyes blinking slowly.  "Oh, yeah," he whispered.

"Jack?"

He rolled his head, looked at her, and grinned wickedly.  "I love Doc," 
he slurred.

"Yeah?"

He nodded, then frowned as pain obviously eased around the edges of the 
medication.  The bowl tilted and red Jell-O(r) inched closer to the lip.

"Why don't you lay down?  Let yourself rest?"

"I'm not tired.  Not," he reached up with his good arm and rubbed his 
eyes, "can't . . . not tired."  He yawned, then chuckled softly.  "Think 
I'm talkin' funny."

"Naw.  You're fine."

"Hey!"  He straightened, and bright red, liquid, stain-in-the-making 
lurched for the border of the porcelain.  Jack laughed softly.  "I am.  I 
am fine."

"Actually, I think you're stoned."

Jack picked up the spoon, watching stupidly as red drops hit the center 
of his chest.  "Yeah."  He sighed heavily and slouched back against the 
headboard, his eyes closing.  "I feel bad."

"Yeah?"  Millie eyed the spoon that was laying on his stomach.  "Um," she 
shook herself and glanced up at him, "bad as in, you feel sick?"

He was asleep, his mouth open and snoring softly.

                         *******************

'Good Clean Fun' - 12:06 p.m.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, one jean-clad knee pressed against Jack's 
hip, Millie could feel the heat of him seeping through the thin layers of 
the cotton sheet and worn denim.  Her hand shaking, she leaned forward 
and very gently picked up the bowl, setting it on the night stand.  
Watching his face, she grabbed the spoon and lifted.  It was already 
sticking to the fine hairs on his stomach.  Wincing, she looked back 
down, pried the spoon loose, and set it in the bowl.  Then, biting her 
bottom lip, she began washing the red stains from his chest and stomach 
with the warm, damp washcloth.

Smiling to herself, she looked up to find Jack watching her.  His eyes 
glazed, he smiled and cocked an eyebrow.  "Hey."

Millie blushed.

He glanced down at the hand on his chest, then back up at her eyes.  
"Whatcha doin'?"

"Um . . . ."

                         *******************

'Cry Me A River' - 1:43 p.m.

"Sam's right in the middle of an experiment of some kind, and she can't 
come to the phone."

Millie sighed and rubbed a hand through her hair.  She had to get out of 
here.  Jack was laying upstairs, sprawled drugged and half-naked across 
the bed, and she had no self-control.  All in all, not a good 
combination.

"Well, do you know how long she's gonna be?"

"Um . . . I don't . . . hang on a sec."  Daniel apparently covered the 
phone, because Millie heard voices - plural - and incomprehensible 
mumbling before he came back on the line.  "Uh, I'm not sure, but I think 
it's going to take a while.  A long time."

Crap!  "Okay.  What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well, Samantha said she was going to see if you could come by later."

"Um . . . ."

"So, can you?"

"Can I what?"

"Can you hear me now?" she petulantly yelled into the phone.  "What the 
hell do you think I'm talking about?"

"Okay, okay, just calm down."

"I am calm, dammit!  You're not the one stuck here with a man who's-," 
Millie stopped herself before she blurted out 'about to be molested.'

"A man who's what?"

"Daniel," she was getting a headache, a really, really bad headache, "can 
you come over and stay with Jack or not?"

"Uh, well . . . not."

"Why?"

"It's . . . it's classified."

Standing at the kitchen counter, Millie fingered the bottle of Darvocet 
and wondered if Jack would miss just one or two.  "Well, thank you.  I'm 
sure Jack appreciates your thoughtfulness.  I know I certainly do."

She slammed the phone onto the cradle, cutting off Daniel's protest.

Jack was right.  Samantha was a chickenshit, and Daniel really was a 
whiney-ass baby.

                         *******************

'Sugar Shack' - 2:52 p.m.

If there was one good thing about Jack's house it was this: the man was a 
junk food junkie.

Millie shook the last Little Debbie(r) Oatmeal Cake from the box.  She'd 
had two already, but since there was only one left, she might as well 
finish off the box.  Wouldn't want to be wasteful.  She shoved the box in 
the trash, on top of the two empty Diet Dr. Pepper(r) cans, and the 
wrapper from the king-sized Snickers(r) bar she'd found in the cabinet 
behind the empty jar of peanut butter.  The Snickers(r) didn't count - it 
had been so hard she'd only managed to eat a third of it before realizing 
that not only couldn't she taste it, but she thought she'd chipped a 
tooth.  Turned out the 'chipped tooth' was merely a petrified peanut 
wedged between two perfectly fine molars.  She'd gotten a good laugh out 
of that and then, better safe than sorry, she'd tossed the remains of the 
candy bar and had looked up her little friend, Debbie.

Noshing on the stale oatmeal patty, she glanced at the clock.  The 
Darvocet was going to wear off any moment.  She just knew it.

Weird . . . she felt all jittery.  Maybe it was the sugar, or the 
caffeine.

She swallowed the last of the cake, and glanced at the clock again.  
Maybe it was because she knew she should check on the half-naked, 
stuporous man upstairs.

She glanced at the clock . . . and spied the cookie jar.  Oreos(r)!

                         *******************

'Fever' - 3:17 p.m.

Feeling overly full and a little queasy, Millie stepped into the darkened 
bedroom and cautiously approached the bed.

Jack had rolled onto his stomach and was now stretched sideways across 
the center of the bed.  His only covering was a narrow strip of sheet 
that was stretched across his butt.  He was sprawled with his bare feet 
dangling off the side and his injured arm tucked under his stomach.  The 
good arm was hanging over the opposite side of the bed, and his head was 
bent at an awkward angle with his cheek pressed into the edge of the 
mattress.

Ow, that was going to hurt.  Maybe she should wake him up, and make him 
turn over.

Stepping closer to the bed, Millie pushed the discarded sling aside with 
her foot, and immediately blanched and felt faint as she spied a pair of 
pale blue boxers curled beside the night stand.

Oh, geez!

She glanced back up at the bed.

As if on cue, Jack mumbled softly and rolled over.  The sheet stretched, 
caught, then gave, and a slender, naked hip was revealed as Jack settled 
on his back with a moan of pain.

Her heart racing, Millie forced her eyes away from the muscular thigh and 
smooth hipbone, up past the dark hair that pointed to the navel - an 
'inny' by the way - and across the flat planes of the stomach and chest 
to the handsome face that was screwed up in apparent agony.

"Jack?"  Suddenly worried, she approached the bed.  "Are you okay?"

He gasped, and blinked up at her.  "Millie?"  His voice was soft, and 
sounded 'off.'

She knelt by the side of the bed.  He was covered with a fine sheen of 
sweat.  Without thinking, she reached out and touched his forehead.  
"Jack, you're sweating.  I think you have a fever."

"Hot," he mumbled and started to toss aside the remains of the sheet.

"No!"  Millie blushed and grabbed his wrist, stopping him.  "Um, don't."

He tried to escape her hand on his forehead, and frowned at her.  In the 
process, she got a good look at his eyes.  They were glittery and 
unfocused.

"Jack, I think I should call Janet."

"My arm hurts."

"You were shot, remember?"

"What?"  He looked at her like she had a third eye, or maybe a big goober 
hanging on the end of her nose.

"You were shot.  Doctor Fraiser sent you home this morning."  A bit early 
if you asked her.

"Big crickets."

"What?"  When Jack didn't answer, Millie felt her pulse quicken.  "Jack?"

He blinked slowly, then frowned.  "A big cricket shot me, but it wasn't 
Mother.  She was nice."

"Of course, she was."  Okay.  She was definitely calling Janet.  She 
patted his arm and forced a smile.  "Jack, I'm going to-"

"Pee."

"What?"

"I need to pee," and that being said, he was groaning and struggling to 
sit up.

"Oh, geez."

                         *******************

'Jumpin' Jack Flash' - 3:23 p.m.

"Okay, okay.  Just . . . oh, geez."  Oh, geez.  Why couldn't she stop 
saying 'oh, geez'?

For the first time in a really long time, Millie felt lost.  She didn't 
know whether she should be helping Jack to stand up, or shoving him back 
into bed and covering him up.

Seeing as how he was struggling his way to his feet, she was pretty much 
out of options.  As she hurried around the bed and stood near his knees, 
Jack removed any doubts about her next move.  With his good hand, he 
grabbed her shoulder and pulled himself upright with a loud curse.  The 
sheet dropped back onto the bed and Millie was left with her arms full of 
a trembling, completely naked Jack O'Neill.  Not quite what she'd had in 
mind during all those sweaty, dream-filled nights.

Damn, the man was hot.  And not in *that* way.  Well, he was . . . but he 
was also burning up with fever.

Jack draped his good arm across her shoulder, took one shuffling step, 
and then suddenly stopped.  "Oops."

"What?"  When she looked up at him, he was staring down at himself.  It 
was reflex to follow his glance.  Wasn't it?  "Oh, geez."  She squeezed 
her eyes closed.  It was the only right thing to do.  Wasn't it?

"I am so going to hell for this," she mumbled, and opened her eyes.

                         *******************

'Smokin' In The Boys' Room' - 4:57 p.m.

"Millie," there was a soft tap on the door, "are you okay?"

Sitting on the floor, her arms braced across her knees, Millie took 
another drag on the cigarette, smothered a cough, and dropped her head 
onto her arms.

"Millie?"

She heard a soft click, looked up, and saw Janet peeking around the edge 
of the bathroom door.

"Go away," she said nicely.

Janet smiled and eased into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her 
and sitting on the floor across from Millie.  She reached out, and Millie 
handed her what was left of the cigarette.  Janet took a deep drag, then 
sighed.

"So . . . bad day?"

Millie grimaced.  "Very funny.  Is Jack okay?"

"He'll be fine.  I changed his antibiotics.  That usually does the trick 
with him."

"His fever was high.  He was talking about weird stuff - getting shot by 
big crickets, his mother."

Janet laughed and finished off the cigarette.  "Yeah, that would be . . . 
weird, all right."  She lifted the lid of the toilet and tossed the butt 
inside, then flushed.  "I'll stay around for a little while.  Make sure 
his fever goes down."

"Is he asleep?"

Janet nodded and scratched her head, then glanced over at Millie.  "Are 
you okay, or do you always sneak into Jack's bathroom for a smoke?"

"I'm . . . I'm fine."

"Okay, now I *know* you've been hanging around him too long."  Janet 
reached for the pack of cigarettes and matches laying on the floor - the 
ones Millie had dug out of Jack's night stand - then seemed to change her 
mind.  "So, what's going on?"

Millie crossed her legs and leaned forward, rubbing her eyes as if trying 
to rid herself of the vision.

"Millie?"

At the concern evident in Janet's voice, Millie looked at the other 
woman.  "I saw him naked."

"Um," Janet started to smile, then frowned and reached for the cigarettes 
again.  She took her time lighting one, glancing at Millie over the 
pinpoint of flame before shaking out the match.  She took a deep drag on 
the cigarette, and twirled the spent match between her fingers.  "And?"

"And?  That's not enough?  There has to be an 'and'?"

"Isn't there?"

Millie shrugged.  "I feel bad, that's all."

Janet squinted at her through a haze of smoke, and offered the cigarette.  
When Millie shook her head, Janet flicked ash and the match into the 
toilet.  "Are you saying it wasn't everything you'd imagined?"

"No, I mean, he was . . .," Millie blushed and met Janet's eyes.  The 
woman was smiling.  "Actually, he was . . . well, you know."

"Yes.  Yes, I do."

Both women sighed and grew quiet.

Finally, Millie cleared her throat.  "It's just . . . I looked."

"As opposed to, what?  Not looking?"

"Well, yeah.  I mean, the poor guy was out of his head with fever and he 
was standing there butt naked and I was gawking at his, well, at his 
frank and beans when I should have been, I don't know, doing something."

"Did you fondle his . . . frank and beans?"

"*What*?"  Millie was shocked.  "Ohmigod, no!  Of course not."

"Did you shove him down on the bed and molest him when he couldn't defend 
himself?"

"Janet-"

Janet laughed.  "Well, then what the hell are you upset about?  So you 
looked?  You think I don't take a gander once in a while?"

Millie couldn't help it - she chuckled.  "You do?"

"What?  Are you kidding me?  The guy's gorgeous.  I get maybe, on 
average, a dozen guys going through my skilled fingers every day.  Trust 
me, I know gorgeous when I see it."  Janet took a long pull on the 
cigarette.  "I also know well-endowed."

Millie giggled.

Janet frowned.  "Is it butt naked or buck naked?  I can never remember."

"You know, Samantha's the reason I'm here in the first place.  She ran 
out on him."

"Yeah," Janet laughed, "she told me."

"She did?"

Janet shrugged and flushed the smoldering cigarette butt.  "She's no 
Nurse Nightingale.  Well," groaning, she stood up, "I'd better go check 
on Mr. Naked Guy."

"Oh, before you leave . . . something's been driving me nuts."

"What?"

Millie reached over and opened the vanity, holding up a large box of 
tampons.  "Are these yours?"

Janet laughed and slipped out of the bathroom.

                         *******************

'If I Had a Hammer' - 9:28 p.m.

"Don't do that!"

Millie screwed up her courage, and continued to hold onto Jack's waist.  
"Forget it, Jack."

"I can do it myself," he grumbled.

"You can't.  Now, quit it."  She slipped his left arm over her shoulders 
and hung on.  He continued to try to walk on his own, despite the fact 
that he was too weak to escape her grasp and was trembling from the 
effort.  Millie grunted as he stumbled and fell against her.  "Dammit, 
you're going to make us both fall."

"Am not."

They were both exhausted.  Worse, Jack was nauseated, in pain, and 
miserable.  This had been their third trip to the bathroom in the last 
two hours.  Millie had tried getting him to just vomit in the trash can, 
but he refused.  Even as he was hurling, he kept assuring her he was 
fine, that it was just a reaction to the pain meds.  A phone call to 
Janet confirmed that he was probably right.  At least his fever was down.

"Go home," he barked.  "I don't want you here."

"Yeah?  Well, screw you."

                         *******************

'Pillow Talk' - 2:07 a.m.

"And then when I was nine, my folks moved here from Hutchinson, Kansas."

"Why?" Jack yawned.

Millie leaned back against the headboard and pulled her feet up on the 
bed.  Jack was laying beside her on his left side, his injured arm 
propped on a stack of pillows in front of him.  "Well, the economy was 
horrible, and Dad was having problems making a living on the ranch.  So, 
he found a job in Colorado Springs repairing small engines, and Mom took 
a job as a teller at one of the local banks."

"What about you?  Do you regret that they moved you here?"

Millie shrugged.  "If I'd stayed there, I'd probably have ended up 
marrying one of the local boys and have a houseful of kids by now."

Jack was staring at her; she could feel his gaze.  "So, do you regret 
that they moved you here?" he repeated.

Millie smiled sleepily.  "Sometimes."  She plucked at the hem of her 
shirt.  "What about you?  Regrets?"

"Sure.  Doesn't everyone?"

Millie thought about the little boy and the woman that she could see in 
the picture on the night stand behind Jack's shoulder.

"I've screwed up a hell of a lot of times," Jack added, "but hopefully, 
I've done a few things right along the way."

"What you do, it's important, isn't it?"

Despite how he was laying, he managed a minute shrug in response.  "I'd 
like to think so."

"And it's not Deep Space Whatever, is it?"

"Telemetry," he supplied.

"You're not training people."

He stared up at her, his face unreadable.

Millie smiled.  "I just have this feeling that you're doing something way 
more important than you even realize."

"I hope you're right," he whispered.

                         *******************

'The House of the Rising Sun' - 6:47 a.m.

Millie awoke feeling lost and hung over.  Moaning, she lifted her head 
and looked around at her unfamiliar surroundings.  The sun was peeking in 
the window across the room, inching up the far wall.  Oh, it was Jack's 
room.  Relieved, she dropped her head back on the pillow and snuggled 
down under the covers.  It was still early.  No rush.  She could lay here 
until-

Jack's room!  Her eyes shot open, and she was suddenly fully awake.  And, 
she was laying on her right side, face to face with Jack O'Neill.

"Morning," he smiled.

"Morning."

"So, was it as good for you as it was for me?"

"Huh?"  Millie raised her head.

Jack laughed.  "You know - the vomiting, the tossing and turning, the 
fever.  Did I forget anything?"

Millie smiled and pulled the covers up around her chin.  "Don't tell me 
you don't remember me stripping you naked and having my way with you."

"Um, I kind of don't remember that part."  Jack grinned.  "Hope I didn't 
scream too loud.  Might wake the neighbors."

"Only once, when I grabbed your bum arm."  Millie closed her eyes.  "Go 
back to sleep, Jack.  It was a long night."

"Long, huh?"  When Millie looked at him, Jack was smiling wickedly.  
"Well, thank you, ma'am."

                         *******************

'Leader of the Pack' - 8:53 a.m.

"Actually, Carter, there's no need.  No, really, Millie and I are doing 
just fine.  Yep.  She spent the night."  Jack smiled at her from across 
the room.  "So, you and Daniel just go back to whatever you were doing.  
No, I insist.  Millie and I can manage without you.  Hang on a sec."  His 
injured arm in a sling, Jack laid the phone aside, took a couple of sips 
of coffee, and stared out the window at the backyard before picking up 
the phone again.  "You still there?  I was thinking - since I'm out of 
commission for a week or so, you and Daniel should take advantage.  You 
know, catch up on all that stuff that's been backlogged."

As Millie watched, Jack squinted out at the falling snow, obviously 
listening to something Samantha was saying.  "Yes, I'm aware of how much 
backlog there is."  He listened again, then smiled.  "Yes, I realize that 
it'll take the two of you at least three weeks working day and night.  
But look at it this way, Captain, you could be stuck here with me playing 
nursemaid."  Jack glanced over at her.  "Right, Millie?"

Millie laughed softly, and bit into a fresh, warm Krispy Kreme(r).  Life 
at Jack's house - sweet!

<fin>

                         *******************

This Nest of Sparrows - 1969
By Charli Booker - charli.booker@netzero.com


RATING: FR-T

WARNINGS: A teeny, tiny bit of potty-mouth 

CATEGORY: Drama, Humor

PAIRING: Only in her dreams....

SPOILERS: None 

TIME FRAME: Season 2. #7 in The Sparrows Series

SUMMARY: The continuing saga of Millie Guthro and the World According to 
Jack.  We all have skeletons in our closets.  The only difference is how 
they're dressed.

DISCLAIMER: 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.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: 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.


                         *******************

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>

                         *******************

This Nest of Sparrows - Out of Mind and Into the Fire
By Charli Booker - charli.booker@netzero.com


RATING: FR-M

WARNINGS: Strong language 

CATEGORY: Drama, Hurt/Comfort

PAIRING: Maybe in her dreams....

SPOILERS: None

TIME FRAME: Season 2-3.  #8 in The Sparrows Series

SUMMARY: The continuing saga of Millie Guthro and the World According to 
Jack. Millie, Jack, and Snakes in the Grass.

DISCLAIMER: 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.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I think Jack had to have hauled home a lot of baggage 
from Hathor's little gig. Other than that, what can I say about a story 
that quotes both the Bible and Pink Floyd?


                         *******************

I watch, and am become like a sparrow that is alone upon the house-top. 
Psalms 102:7

The lunatic is in my head The lunatic is in my head You raise the blade, 
you make the change You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane You lock the door And 
throw away the key There's someone in my head but it's not me. Brain 
Damage, Pink Floyd, Lyrics by Waters

                         *******************

Millie Guthro wasn't sure what had made her do it. Actually, that wasn't 
true. She knew *exactly* what had made her do it. She just wasn't sure 
what had made her do it *now*.

As she bicycled past the Rocky Top Pit Stop, her stomach clenched. Any 
other day, she would have blamed it on last night's sesame chicken - the 
sesame chicken she'd warmed-over two too many times this week. But, she 
knew that wasn't it. It wasn't even the threat of a sugar-induced bout of 
diarrhea. She should be so lucky.

It was guilt. Pure, simple, unadulterated guilt.

Despite the fact she really needed to stop to pick up a few staples for 
Jack's pantry, she pedaled past the small store, telling herself it was 
too hard to lug things all the way to Jack's house on her bike. She'd 
stop some other time. Better yet, she'd been meaning to check out that 
new superstore on the south side of town. While she was there, she could 
also pick up a vacuum cleaner filter. She knew for a fact the Pit Stop 
didn't stock them.

Yeah. That's why she rode past.

Still, it didn't explain the persistent ache in the pit of her stomach.

                         *******************

The moment she spied his truck sitting in the driveway, Millie felt a 
loosening of muscles she hadn't realized were tense. She wasn't sure why 
it bothered her so much when Jack was gone more than a few days. He'd 
told her from the get-go his job sometimes demanded he be out of the 
country for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. She knew that. Still, she 
worried. And, this time had been the worst yet. Jack had been gone for 
several weeks.

Millie knocked softly in case he was sleeping but before she could slip 
her key in the lock, the over-sized door swung open and Jack towered over 
her. At the sight of him whole, she sighed softly, involuntarily. She 
considered the fact he sported no casts and leaned on no crutches to be 
gravy.

"Jack!" she grinned.

"Millie, hi." He smiled. "So, this must mean it's either Tuesday or 
Friday."

As he stepped aside, Millie entered the cool entryway. "Tuesday." Tossing 
her backpack onto the floor under the hall table, she followed him into 
the kitchen. "You were gone a long time this time."

His back to her, she barely heard his, "Was I?"

"I was beginning to get a bit worried, actually," she confessed.

"Oh, yeah?" Stepping into the small L-shaped kitchen, Jack leaned his 
elbows on the counter and began scanning the pages of a local paper 
spread out across the countertop. "You shouldn't worry," he told her 
distractedly. "You know I'm gone a lot."

Millie sank down in the chair at the small corner desk. "Yeah, I know."

Suddenly frowning, he glanced at her then back at the paper, his gaze 
refusing to settle in any one spot. "I assume Janet paid you."

"Oh, yeah. It worked out fine. Thanks." Using her tennis-shoe covered 
toes, Millie swivelled the chair in a lazy circle. "I need to make a 
grocery run, and thought I'd pick up some fertilizer for your rose bushes 
while I'm out. Can I borrow your truck?"

Turning a page of the newspaper, Jack ran a hand through his hair. "Why 
don't I drop you off? I need to make a couple of stops myself."

"Okay. I thought I'd give the new supercenter a run for your money."

Smirking, Jack looked out the window then back at the paper. "I thought 
you swore you'd never so much as darken their door."

"Yeah, well, obviously, I lied."

                         *******************

She watched him out of the corner of her eye, and tried to decide what 
was wrong with him. All extremities - the ones she could see anyway - 
appeared to functioning normally. No visible bruises. Hell, he wasn't so 
much as limping or even acting sore. But, Jack just wasn't acting like . 
. . Jack.

He eased the truck to a stop in a long line of traffic at a red light. 
The mid-morning sun bore down with glaring relentlessness, throwing 
haphazard, blinding reflections off the surrounding vehicles and burning 
through the thighs of her faded blue jeans with alarming intensity. 
Turning her face to the open passenger window, Millie lifted her chin to 
the slight breeze rolling down off the mountains and smiled as it quickly 
dried the sweat from her upper lip.

"Inconsiderate assholes," Jack muttered.

Frowning, Millie looked over at him as he thumbed the controls on the 
driver's side door. "What?"

The temperature in the cab immediately rocketed as the windows silently 
closed. Jack flipped on the air conditioning and glanced at her. "That 
didn't bother you?" he said accusingly.

"What didn't bother me?"

The crease in his forehead deepening, he glanced down at the car sitting 
alongside him. "That," he indicated with a jut of his chin. "Damned rap. 
Who the hell ever came up with that and decided to call it music should 
be shot."

Millie turned to stare back out her window. "I like some of it." Feeling 
an icy finger of dread run up her spine, she glanced over to find Jack 
glaring at her. "What?"

In response, he said nothing. He merely turned his head to stare out the 
windshield, gassing the truck as the traffic began to move. She shivered 
slightly and adjusted the angle of the vent.

                         *******************

As she pushed the cart towards the automatic doors, Millie glanced at her 
watch. Right on time. She'd told Jack it'd take forty-five minutes to 
circumnavigate the inside of the store. She'd been right. Geesh, the 
thing was like a football stadium. And, of course, the things she'd 
needed were on opposite ends of the playing field. The good news was, if 
she'd planned on hitting the treadmill later, she could have crossed it 
off her list. Shopping here had to place a close second behind a 
triathalon.

Jack was waiting. The big diesel truck idled noisily in the first spot 
past the handicapped parking. Catching his eye, she waved a hand and 
started towards the truck as he climbed out to help her unload the cart.

The blaring of a horn made her jump. She stared up at the grill of a mud-
covered SUV. Glancing past it, her gaze locked with that of the driver - 
an unshaven man about her own age. With a fierce glare, he waved her on. 
Smiling, Millie hesitated slightly before taking a step. The engine 
revved and the vehicle bucked towards her. She flinched and frowned up at 
him. What the hell? The driver smiled. Watching him steadily, Millie 
started forward. The engine revved again.

"Don't *even* think about it!" Jack yelled. Both Millie and the driver 
looked over to find Jack striding towards them. Fury transforming his 
features and movements, Jack launched himself at the driver's door and 
yanked it open. Before Millie could grasp what was happening, Jack was 
trying to haul the man from the vehicle.

"What the-," the driver gasped as he struggled against Jack's grip and 
the stranglehold of the seatbelt which held him at the waist and across 
one shoulder.

Shoving the cart out of the way, Millie ran towards the men. "Jack!"

He was oblivious to everything around him; he was focused solely on the 
man in his clutches. "Just what the *fuck* were you trying to pull? Huh?" 
The stranger's body still half inside the truck, Jack furiously shook him 
by the shoulders. "Answer me, you son-of-a-bitch!"

"Jack!" Millie grabbed onto a long forearm, trying to pry Jack loose from 
the driver. 

"Get the hell off me!" the man demanded.

A small crowd was gathering just outside the doors to the store, watching 
in stunned silence as Jack tried to wrestle the man from the SUV.

"Jack, don't!" Millie's heart from racing. "Stop it!"

"You think you can just run people down and get by with it?" Jack 
accused.

Seatbelt still locked, the man was hanging by the strap around his waist. 
Trying to fight off Jack's rabid grip, the man kicked. Jack easily dodged 
the sharp-toed boot aimed at his groin. He threw a retaliatory punch to 
the man's middle, then went down like a shot when the other boot 
delivered a solid blow to the inside of his left knee.

Grunting softly, Jack rolled and struggled to get back on his feet. 
Panting noisily, desperately, the driver shoved Millie out of the way and 
managed to crawl back inside his vehicle and slam the door. Millie fell 
back against Jack, both of them hitting the pavement as the SUV lunged 
like a ponderous beast across the tarmac, leaving scattered shoppers and 
the smell of burnt oil in its wake.

Quietly, Millie and Jack untangled themselves.

"I saw the whole thing," an old man declared and reached down to offer 
Millie a hand up. "Young punks nowadays. Are you all right, young lady?"

Millie nodded, grateful for the help. "Thank you. Yeah, I'm okay."

"What about your husband?" The gentleman turned his attention to Jack, 
who had regained his feet and was standing there looking lost and 
breathless. "Are you hurt?"

Staring in the direction the SUV had taken, it took a moment for Jack to 
realize someone had spoken to him. He blinked and stared down at the 
elderly man who had a steadying hand on Jack's elbow. Forcing a tight 
smile, Jack gently pulled his arm free. "Yeah. Fine. Thanks."

"Don't mention it, son. If I were twenty years younger, I'd have lent you 
a hand. Then we'd have shown that young fellow what was what."

Jack nodded distractedly and glanced at Millie who was rubbing her elbow. 
"Are you hurt?"

Despite the fact her arm throbbed from elbow to shoulder, she shook her 
head 'no.' Truth be told, she wasn't quite sure what Jack would do if she 
admitted to an injury, however slight. Thanking the man once again for 
his help, Millie collected her backpack from where she'd dropped it on 
the pavement while Jack limped over to retrieve the cart. Without 
speaking, they loaded the bags into the truck and crawled into the cab. 
Jack started the pick-up and eased out of the parking lot.

Leaning against the passenger door, discreetly holding her arm, Millie 
stared out the window at the bright summer day and wondered what the hell 
had just happened. She'd never seen Jack so angry. She'd never seen him 
out of control. As he pulled the truck onto the freeway to head for home, 
she glanced over at him. Despite the white-knuckled grip on the steering 
wheel, his hands were trembling.

"Jack," she said, amazed at the calmness of her voice, "you're bleeding."

He glanced at her. His features were pinched and pale. "What?"

She pointed with her good arm. "Your neck. It's bleeding."

With a shaky hand, he reached up and touched the back of his neck where 
blood darkened the collar of his denim shirt. "Dammit," he mumbled, 
looking at his fingertips.

"Do you want me to-"

"No." Trembling, blood-stained fingers gripped the wheel. "It's nothing. 
Just leave it."

Pressing her forehead to the warm glass, Millie closed her eyes until she 
felt the truck come to a stop. When she looked, they were home. Jack's 
home. They sat there for a moment, the diesel rumbling quietly.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She didn't ask for what because she was pretty sure she knew. "It's 
okay."

His eyes hidden behind his dark glasses, he frowned in the direction of 
the front door. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's just-"

When she didn't answer, he turned his head in her direction and forced a 
tight grin. She had no idea if his eyes met hers.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he repeated.

She forced a smile of her own. "You didn't." She shrugged, the movement 
provoking another round of aching that erupted from her shoulder and shot 
towards her elbow. "Anyway, it's over. No big deal."

"Yeah." His smile hardened. "No big deal."

                         *******************

Millie sank back onto the thick green lawn and squinted up at the sky. 
She'd never been a world traveler, and she'd always wondered if the sky 
was this beautiful anywhere else in the world. She seriously doubted it. 
Sitting here, she could pick out at least four different shades of 
indescribably beautiful blue. The only thing missing was a multi-rainbow 
- something she'd been told was unheard of in other parts of the country. 
Here, it was not uncommon to see a double or even a triple rainbow. 
Sighing softly, she sat up, crossed her legs Indian-style, and studied 
the rose bushes.

She hadn't lied the first time she'd met Jack: she did hate roses. Mainly 
because they guaranteed thorns and bees. Plus, they were too showy. She 
preferred simpler fare. Give her daisies or sunflowers any day of the 
week. Better yet, Lily of the Valley. That was her all-time favorite. 
Simple, sweet and fragrant.

Humming softly, Millie reached over, pulled a stray weed and wondered yet 
again what was wrong with Jack. Since they'd arrived home nearly two 
hours ago, he'd barely spoken. He'd helped her unload the bags, then had 
disappeared into his bedroom. He'd emerged a short time later sporting a 
clean t-shirt with a white bandage neatly taped to the back of his neck. 
Right now, he was in the garage working on the trimmer.

Rubbing her sore arm, Millie stared past the fence row of flowers. She 
knew whatever was bothering Jack must have something to do with wherever 
he'd been and whatever he'd been doing the last few weeks. It had to. 
She'd never seen him like this before and despite denying it earlier, he 
*had* scared her. She'd seen the look on his face as he'd attacked that 
man. And, while she liked to think it was only because he'd been 
protecting her, she had a sneaking suspicion it really hadn't had 
anything to do with her at all. In fact, she kind of thought Jack had 
just been looking for a reason to lash out at someone. Anyone. 
Unfortunately for the stranger, he'd picked the wrong person to harass.

Kind of like how Millie herself had lashed out during her last trip to 
the Pit Stop. The fact that she'd finally complained to management about 
the disgusting personal habits of one Connie 'Booger Fingers' Blankenship 
had less to do with the cashier picking her nose in public than it did 
with a grudge dating back to high school. Just because Millie had found 
herself on the receiving end of a really, really, really bad day, the 
unsuspecting ex-cheerleader had found herself the unwitting victim of the 
old adage 'misery loves company.' Millie had yet to return to the Pit 
Stop. She wasn't sure what would be worse - knowing she'd gotten Connie 
fired, or having to face her if she still worked there.

She wondered if Jack felt as guilty about his outburst as she did about 
hers. At least in his case, they'd all escaped relatively intact. She 
hated to think what *could* have happened. If Jack had managed to wrestle 
the guy out of his vehicle, she had no doubt that the stranger would have 
ended up in the hospital and more than likely Jack would have ended up in 
jail.

Despite the warmth of the sun, Millie shuddered at the memory of the look 
on Jack's face. She couldn't recall ever seeing a hatred so intense, a 
fury so savage. The Jack she knew was so different. He was funny and 
smart and athletic and sexy and irritating as hell, but she never would 
have described him as frightening. Deadly. Not until today.

Millie absently reached for the trowel she'd stabbed into the dirt under 
the nearest rose bush, then jerked when her hand touched something cool 
and soft instead. Staring down at the ground in front of her, it took a 
moment for her brain to translate what she was seeing. When it did, she 
yelled and began back-pedaling across the verdant lawn.

"Oh, God." Stumbling, she gained her footing and ran towards the safety 
of the house. "Oh, shit. Oh, crap." Shuddering, she hugged herself and 
danced nervously from foot to foot on the deck. She groaned. "Ew!"

"Millie?" Jack stuck his head around the corner of the garage. When he 
saw her on the deck, he frowned. "What's going on?"

Momentarily speechless, she pointed towards the fence row. "It's . . . I 
saw it . . . over there. Holy crap." She hugged herself tighter, her 
heart still racing.

Jack stepped around the corner of the house. "Saw what?"

Shivering, Millie managed, "Snake. A big, huge, ugly, gross, disgusting 
snake." Jack froze and his face paled. "I touched it. I put my hand on 
it."

Rousing, he commanded, "Don't move. Stay right where you are."

As he disappeared back into the garage, Millie needlessly yelled, "Oh, 
don't worry. I'm not setting foot in your yard and I'm not touching your 
damned, stinking roses ever again. Ever!"

Jack reappeared carrying a hoe. "Where'd you see it?"

Millie pointed in the general direction. "Over there by that bag of 
fertilizer." As Jack limped across the lawn, Millie inwardly cringed. 
Garden implement in one hand, he pushed the rose bushes back with the 
other and peered beneath them.

"I don't see it. What kind was it?"

"What *kind* was it? Are you kidding? It was a snake. Two pointy ends and 
a middle."

He shot a glare in her direction then suddenly took a step back. 
"Dammit," he muttered. Easing the hoe under the bush, he carefully lifted 
the snake off the ground and turned around, depositing the squirming 
reptile on the lawn. "That's it?" he chuckled, looking up at her. "This 
is the huge boa constrictor that nearly had you by the throat?"

"It's not funny! Besides," she conceded, "it looked much bigger from 
where I was sitting."

Smiling, Jack leaned over and picked up the garter snake by the tail. 
Holding it aloft, he looked over at her. "So, what do you think - 
rattlesnake, copperhead, cottonmouth maybe?"

"You're a real comedian. A regular Jerry Seinfeld."

Jack laughed as the serpent writhed against the hold on its tail. 
Slinging its tiny body back and forth, it lunged towards Jack's face. 
Flinching, he dropped it. "You little shit," he mumbled. Instead of 
making a dash for the fence row, the panicked reptile coiled itself 
across the toe of Jack's boot. Lifting his foot, he tossed the creature 
onto the grass, raised the hoe and delivered a killing blow. From her 
vantage point on the deck, Millie saw the snake curl up, then slowly 
unwind, its fragile body nearly severed in half. Jack lifted the hoe and 
calmly watched as the reptile flopped uncontrollably. Then slowly, 
deliberately, he raised the hoe and struck again.

Feeling the ebbing of her sudden cowardice, Millie stepped off the deck 
and cautiously approached. The snake was even smaller than she'd thought. 
Of course, considering it had been effectively halved, its reduction in 
size might be an illusion. She flinched when Jack raised the hoe and once 
again struck the now dead serpent.

"Jack?"

Grunting softly, he pulled the implement free and ignored her. He aimed 
and struck again. And again.

"Uh, Jack?"

He was oblivious to her presence. Sweat dripping off his face, his arms 
yanked the blade from the earth, raised the hoe, swung, delivered a 
slicing blow, and raised the sharp instrument again. The snake became 
four, then eight, then twelve, until Millie lost count of the pieces. The 
lawn was a patchwork of divots and slashes. Blood and dirt mingled. Dirty 
scars she would later meticulously mend and patch, but for now her eyes 
were riveted on the damage Jack wrought. She was so concentrated on what 
he was doing, his muttered string of curses nearly escaped her.

"Fucking bitch," he whispered as the blade severed another section from 
the tail. "Fucking snakehead bitch." Over and over.

Forcing her eyes from the ground at his feet, Millie looked at him. It 
was the face of the man who had recently attacked a stranger. Studying 
the hard planes of the once friendly face, she noticed the bandage on the 
back of his neck. A small, perfect circle of blood darkened the center of 
the pristine gauze.

"You're bleeding again," she whispered more to herself than to him.

Tan arms lifted, muscles rippled, and the red dot grew on the downward 
swing. She was mesmerized by the cadence of the savage dance. So 
hypnotized by the strange beauty of its rhythm that it stopped several 
seconds before she realized the deadly waltz had come to an end.

Jack was panting, breathless, hunched over like an old man. Slowly, he 
dropped to his knees and stared at the destruction laid out before him.

Millie found herself sitting on her butt in the grass without knowing how 
she'd arrived there. Still staring at Jack, she met his gaze when he 
turned his head and looked at her. Drenched in sweat, he was trembling 
and gasping for breath.

"She's gone. She can't hurt us," he quietly informed her.

Millie frowned. "Jack, what happened to you?" He didn't answer. "Wherever 
it was you've been, something happened, didn't it?"

His shoulders slumped and he took a deep, ragged breath. "It's over. I'm 
fine. We're all . . . fine."

"I know you probably can't talk about it, but . . . ." Feeling helpless, 
Millie stretched out a hand towards him, but stopped when he pulled away 
from her touch.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, looking embarrassed. "I just . . . I'm okay. 
Really." As if to prove it, he forced a shaky, sickly smile.

Millie studied his features; she watched as he caught his breath and 
regained control. She could only hope he was right.

Jack dropped a trembling hand onto her shoulder and gave it a gentle 
squeeze. "I promise."

She forced herself to endure the sweaty grip on her injured arm. "Well, 
then, as long as you're sure."

His smile slipping, Jack released her and stared down at the bloody 
remnants of the harmless snake.

"So," Millie joined him in surveying the scene of the horrific crime, 
"you're sure it's dead?"

Jack chuckled harshly and when Millie looked up, he was aiming a genuine, 
heart-wrenching smile her way. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

<end>