Because I never offered, and no one asked, and I'm avoiding homework again. ;) I guess this is my attempt at a 'DVD-Commentary' for my story, Chronology. This story has been (and still is) a really surprise 'hit' for me. I've been writing fanfic and publishing it online since about 1995, and never had much 'popular' success outside my first fandom. And that's probably just because I eventually figured out how to spellcheck. So, color me totally shocked when I wrote this story and got more, and varied, feedback than any other story I'd ever written.

Oh, and I also wanted to mention Hya right here. She beta'd this story and made it 1000% better than it would have been. I love having beta's who fix stuff and point out things that are unclear or could be better. Hya did that on AIM with this and really helped me focus the material in the direction I wanted it to go. Everyone cheer for Hya!

Okay, here we go...

Title: Chronology

(All right, the title was actually a last-minute addition. I tacked it on just before posting with very little thought to what it meant. My stuff comes in two varieties; the ones that give me the title first, or almost immediately, or the ones that just get stuck with a title because I can't think of anything else. This was the latter, but thinking about it now, there isn't another title that seems even vaguely right. Yay, happy accidents!)

Author: Me
Rating: PG
Spoilers: General knowledge of the show, otherwise, nary a one.
Notes: To Hya and HC and Splash and Lyta. Hya because she made this tons better than it would have been simply by kicking my ass. HC and Splash and Lyta because they actually wanted to *read* it. Much love, kids.

(See? I wuv my fans. I have fans!)

Also! |Words between these doohickeys are in italics.|

(Just a comment on general formatting here. I've formatted my stories on my personal site both in html and txt. For a long time, I strictly formatted things in .txt format because it was faster for people to load, and I'd done both .txt and .html versions of stories at my Birds of a Feather archive and totally burned out on doing .html. I've moved back towards it just because of things like having to use |these marks| to indicate italicization. And because I like using italics instead of *astericks* these days. Just an evolving personal preference at work. And you'll notice this 'expanded' version is coded in HTML on my site, while the actual story is in text. Yeah, italics? Helpful here.)

***

Chronology
by A.j.

(Yes, I like my name spelled capital 'A', period, lowercase 'j', period. That is the way my name is spelled. It is not a typo. AJ, A.J., and aj are other people.)

***

She tastes like pears. Nutty. Solid. Just a bit sweet.

(I love this line. This was the very first line of this story ever written, and I'm still in love with the image. And just for those of you keeping score? It's pears because I have total amazement for the Jelly Belly Pear-flavored jelly bean. And pears in general.)

Then again, maybe it's just her lip gloss.

(Note, I have this thing with chapstick. I have tubes of it stashed all over my damn house and in every coat I own. This tends to be a bad thing when my mother randomly washes my coats. But I also have a big thing about the taste of chapstick in fic, if that makes any sense. I read a story tag forever ago that went "She tastes like rootbeer and chapstick." It was a BTVS Faith story, and while I have no real interest in femslash, that tag just sort of stuck with me.)

When he was seven years old, his father came home from work swinging his leather briefcase and smiling like a fool. Well, that's what his mother had said after his father had spun her around the kitchen and kissed her solidly on the mouth before bounding up the stairs to change out of his suit.

(Never noticed until this exact moment that I never mentioned Jack's name until a third of the way through the story. That's very strange for me. I catch myself doing this all the damn time. I never really noticed it until I did this commentary. Still, I think it works. And I really like the parents I created for Jack in this story. Mostly for reasons I'll explain in a minute.)

|"Patrick, you're grinning like a fool! What's wrong with you?"|

(Heehee! Yeah, I went stereotypical and named him 'Patrick O'Neill', but dude. Jonathan O'Neill? From 1960's Chicago? Please. And dude, I never did name Jack's mom, did I?)

His mother hadn't minded though. He'd been able to tell because she hadn't yelled at him for getting red crayon all over the refrigerator, and when you're seven, that was a large reprieve indeed.

(Aww, seven-year-old Jack. ::has a moment::)

Later, that night over supper, his father had told them all about the cabin he'd just picked up 'for a song' in the upper wilds of Minnesota. His mother hadn't been so pleased then. She'd been born and raised in Bridgeport, and her idea of wildlife had involved a trip on the el to Lincoln Park Zoo and giving Jack quarters to buy food pellets for the giraffes. So, she'd pursed her lips and glared until Jack had been sent to bed.

(Okay, several things in this paragraph stick out. I originally hadn't intended on making this story all about Jack's cabin. It quickly morphed into it, but my original intent was some kind of schmoopy Sam/Jack fluff. I'm really kind of glad Patrick popped up and decided that he was the one who bought the cabin.

Also, I think I made it clear here that Patrick is fairly well-to-do. Maybe upper-middle-class, or middle-class. Not really much of a way he could have afforded the house.

BUT, I also made a point to showcase a few Chicago landmarks. The first being the neighborhood of Bridgeport. Bridgeport is a southside neighborhood, and was the home territory of Mayor Richard Daley senior, Chicago's most (in)famous mayor. It's very much a blue-collar, Irish neighborhood. I wanted Jack there because of the background he could have wandered into if he hadn't joined the Air Force. But, more on that later too.

The other two images I want to point out are the el. The 'el' stands for 'elevated' and is Chicago's backbone public transport system that's been around since the late 1800's. And Lincoln Park Zoo the free zoo that's up by Fullerton on the north side. It's a wonderful zoo, with a fabulous conservatory that's right near the lake. And you can totally buy pellets for the giraffe's.)

Three weeks later, they'd packed their bags and taken the family station wagon on the brand new Eisenhower and headed north. Jack had spent most of the drive, face smashed against the window watching the farms and trees roll by. Rivers and hills blurred in a sea of green, and he was fairly certain his mother had laughed herself sick when he'd fallen asleep and drooled against the glass.

(The phrasing in the first sentence of this paragraph has always bugged me. I keep wanting to go back and change it to 'turned the family station wagon onto the brand new...', but that only hit me after the second version of posting.

Oh, and driving to Minnesota from Chicago? It is all farms and trees and hills and greenery in summer. If you're ever thinking of a trip to the midwest during summer? A drive in the country is so worth it. Beautiful country.)

She'd made him clean it off the next day, her eyes dancing evilly. Yeah, he had no idea where his taste in women came from. None at all.

(Hee! When I typed this line is the exact moment I fell in love with Jack's mom. I think I'm going to call her Bridget now. And it kind of warms my soul to think of Jack marrying someone like his mom.

I also want to go into why I like Jack's parents so much. To me, someone who managed to live through Jack's childhood and not strangle the boy needs to be canonized but-quick. Yeah, he's a bouncing ball of inattention now, but can you imagine him at the age of eight? Honestly? Yikes. And I really wanted his parents to be sympathetic but not saccrine.

Well-to-do, or not, growing up in the 60's in south Chicago (Jack? A north-side boy? HAHAHAHA! Jack? In Uptown? HAHAHAHAHAHA!), Jack would have had to have been tough. You still have to be, but... Yikes. This was the time of total civil unrest and the reign of Mayor Daley Sr. Now I'm a total freak about Chicago history, and if you've heard me natter on, you know just how insane that time period was. And I've totally gone on too long about this.

I like Jack's parents and I tried to make them realistic. I think I did okay.)

He'd woken with the slowing of the car to the sound of rubber crunching on gravel, and when he'd peered blearily over the back seat and out the front window, there it had been. Four walls, two windows and a door.

|"Patrick! It looks like one of those houses Jack draws in school!"|

(For any of you who are Discworld fans? Yeah, I was totally referencing The Hogfather here.)

He'd fallen instantly in love. The lake next to it had only sweetened the deal, and by the time he'd met James Andersen down the road (who taught him how to skip rocks and catch toads with all his ten-year-old wisdom,) Jack O'Neill's mental image of heaven had significantly shifted.

(Minnesota? Big Swedish and Norwegian population. Huge. Hence the 'Andersen' spelling. And aww... Jack found heaven.)

When he was fifteen years old, his father had bought several tons of lumber, and checked a construction book out of the library. His mother had shaken her head, kissed his father on the nose and made Jack promise to call a contractor if dad broke anything major.

By the time she'd made it up during the dead heat of August, his father's broken arm had healed, and they'd both managed to figure out the basics of deck architecture. Well, his father had. Jack had ended up mostly hauling wood and nailing it together.

(This is a total bastardization of something that my brother told me about that happened with my step-dad. SD was all gung-ho about some kitchen home-repair project and roped B into it. B ended up doing the whole damn thing while SD went to the hospital after having shelving fall on him.)

He remembers nearly everything about that summer. It had been strange, at the time, when his father had told him they were going to Minnesota for the entire stretch between stints at Ryan Hall. The normal pattern had been a few weeks in July, when business was slow and the mosquitoes were enthusiastic. Later, during the doctor visits and the tubes and needles, he'd known why.

(Yes, there really is a Ryan Hall, and it's the local public school in Bridgport. I looked it up! And in case it isn't abundantly clear by the end, yeah Jack's dad got cancer.

That was one of the only reasons I could think of to get Jack into the military, since his family has been established as middle-class. Yeah, it's kind of a cliche, but I figured Jack either 1. got into trouble and got offered Air Force or Jail, or 2. his family didn't have the cash to send him to college and the Air Force was a good way to go.)

It had seemed an amazing stroke of good luck at the beginning of the summer. Three months of freedom had stretched out before him, and despite the tang of freshly cut wood scenting the air - a reminder of Work To Come - those months had represented something he normally didn't have. Time. Time to see if Gina Larson had filled out her sweater (she had) or if good old Jimmy would take him joy riding in the Chevy he'd pieced together over the previous summer (he did.) Time with his father, and time to watch the lake and perfect his casting.

He remembers it all in quiet sepia tones that have nothing to do with real life and everything to do with too many nights passed out on the couch and waking up in the middle of an AMC movie marathon. But it's okay, because despite the unreality, he can remember the tang of salt in his mouth and the vibrations running along his arm with each swing of the hammer. Jack remembers his father's voice, encouraging with just a hint of pain. Jack had marked it down to the broken arm, and not the thing he'd known nothing about.

(I really like the first sentence of this paragraph. This whole section I like because it's very image and sense-related. One of my personal writing Gods is Princess Twilite, and her style is very much sense-oriented. I like giving meaty prose, and while I don't always nail what I'm trying to say, these paragraphs did.)

He lost his virginity on that deck. Sweaty and good and completely foreign, it waved good-bye in the arms of Julia McNamera three weeks before his parents had pulled him down to the dinner table to 'explain things'.

(This was a total Jara-related insert. Her and her damn 'Virgin!Jack' obsession. And while I have some minor, unvocalize-able issues with the structure of the second sentence, I can't figure out how to make it better than it is.)

For a while, that deck represented manhood. A test he'd passed with sweat and blood. It was something he pointed at to say 'I made that. That was me.' Something tangible that he shared with his father.

But everything changes, and a deck became medals close to his heart, and then a child, and then friendships. Seasons shifting behind his eyes. Becoming things he'd never imagined, people he'd never dreamed of.

(Yeah, I think this paragraph can get cut. I just didn't, and I have no idea why. This was from an earlier version where we never got to meet Sara, or got Jack crying. Both sections that I think make this story so much stronger and... whaddaya know! Up next...)

Just before his twenty-seventh birthday, he brought Sara here for the first time. Drunk on leave, and wine, and her, he'd dragged her kicking and screaming into the shallow waters next to his dock. Squealing like the child she'd just grown beyond, she'd fought him madly, splashing and laughing and so damn free.

(This section was totally improved by Hya. She helped me weed through it and clear things up so that it made sense. I also wanted to yank my own chain about the 'Squealing like the child she'd just grown beyond' bit. I love that phrasing, and it's jarring to think that this Sara is probably the age I am right now.)

Sex and his deck had, apparently, become a theme. He'd loved her deeply with an edge honed by all the dark things and places that he never allowed his mind to touch; not here, not in his small slice of heaven. They skirted on the edges of his brain, retreating from the glowing warmth that was Sara and Jack. Together.

(Again, Hya? Love you. I have nice shoes...)

After they'd tired themselves out in the water and in themselves, he'd watched her doze on the smooth wood of his deck. Her limbs long and firm and glittering in the afternoon light. He'd seen his future in her, stretched along this place. So when she'd laughed (and cried) at his tiny diamond and big plans, she'd kissed him long and hard before pulling back and smiling at him.

(Okay, for obvious reasons, this is the section I get the most comments on. I am a total Sam/Jack freak. Total and complete on damn near every level. But it really pisses me off when writers represent Sara as bitchy or one-dimensional just because she was Jack's first wife.

She was Jack's first wife for a reason. He loved her enough to marry her and have a child with her. I really wanted to see that side of their relationship, and I wanted to give it the respect it deserves. I have slowly fallen desperately in love with Sara's character. I recently rewatched the Stargate movie, and was just struck at Sara's scene in it. She's in the movie for all of thirty seconds, and she's the one I remember best.

I hope readers remember my Sara.)

|"You're a fool, Jack. And I've always been an idiot for foolish men."|

(Just a minor vocab flash-back to parallel Jack's mom and Sara. Watch me be thrilled with style.)

And the next time they'd come, it had been with a three-year-old child who'd tangled himself in fishing line at every chance, and laughed so loud and clear, Jack could have sworn he'd scared the fish all away.

(Aww... Charlie! And yeah, I'm kinda wonky with time period's here. I was trying to think it out recently, and just gave up.)

When Jack was thirty-nine years old, he'd walked out onto this deck and cried. Hard tears no one would ever hear. Could never hear. For hours, he'd sat curled against the post staring at nothing and everything, reveling in the quiet that was just him and this place.

His son had died. His wife had left. He'd been to another planet, and lied to the people to whom he'd sworn an oath.

(Okay, this went in because I've never really seen any Jack-grieving fic. Well, immediately-post-movie Jack-grieving. I wanted to see it, so I wrote it.)

He'd had the lake dragged. Paid his old friend Jimmy to take every last bit of aquatic life out and far away. There'd been nothing then. Just the water and the sun and this place because he needed to honor his son like that.

(I really liked that image, and the quick reference back to Ole Jimmy Andersen. Continuity is cool! And realistically, his lake was probably empty naturally. Lord knows in that area of the country lots of people do fish fills to get fish in their lakes. Jack just may not bother. But, I really like the sentimental idea, so. Bye, reality!)

Charlie had laughed and all of the fish had swum away. That's the way it would always be.

There hadn't been voices that summer. Just his own singing along to Gene Autry and Johnny Cash and Hank Williams and other men who'd done it all and come out the other side. The summer of his thirty-ninth year was much like that of his fifteenth, but in reverse. Hushed whispers and screamed pains were over and lost, left spinning in the past, rather than edging along the horizon.

(I've been having a serious love affair with older country music lately. My mom and SD were both huge fans when I was younger, so I listened to a lot and have only recently been revisiting that music. All these men seemed very appropriately mentioned, even though there were some questions about "Doesn't Jack like classical music?"

Yes, as far as I know he does, but country music was dubbed the 'music of pain' for a reason.

Also, I really like the reflection back on the summer when Jack built the deck. It really ties things together in a neat peaked graph or something.

And peace to Gene Autry, Johnny Cash, and Hank Williams. They were beautiful, flawed creatures who gave bodies of work that just stun and humble me.)

It was an aftermath of sorts. Most men, when they reached middle age, got a new sports car or a girlfriend. He got a whole new future, unplanned and murky. But the day he drove back to Colorado, the cabin getting smaller and smaller in his rearview, he'd smiled.

(Okay! The original posting of this story, both in my LJ and on samandjack had the last sentence in this paragraph starting with 'And'. It made no sense. You can tell if someone got the early version because that word is changed everywhere else to 'But'. Because it changed the whole tone of the story.)

His haven had done its job, and the gnawing ache was just that much smaller.

He's fifty-one years old now, and it's August again. His hair matches the faded cedar of his cabin, and he feels every single pain and ache from a life lived hard and well.

(Aww. Boy is going to have some interesting arthritis in the future.)

His future is uncertain, again, but in a different way.

Samantha Carter is kissing him on his deck at his cabin, their fingers in each other's hair.

(EEEEE! Sorry. The idea of Sam and Jack making out makes me happier than it should. What? Me? Fangirl? Surely you jest... EEEEE! Oh, and I thought the quick switch to and fro of tenses and time-line placement creates a neat little effect. Present, teeny bit past, present. Fun! Plus, me and the tenses? We always play fast and loose. Which probably isn't a good thing if you think about it. Lord knows it drives my beta's up the wall.)

"My father and I built this deck." He'd told her under the bright dark sky, breathing deep the smell of green and water and her. It felt right, and good to say. Something of himself that he'd never given anyone else. Not freely.

She'd smiled then. Her eyes bright under stars and the backlighting of the cabin. And just for a minute he heard his father and mother laughing, heard Charlie squealing over his fish, and Sara shriek as he kissed her in the shallows.

(Good moment of life-reflection. And we got Sara back in there! In a positive way!)

When he'd been seven years old, he'd seen this cabin for the first time. Right now, at the age of fifty one, he saw it again. Smiling up at him.

(*LOVE* this bit. The whole jump back to the 'redefinition of heaven' because I'm a massive sap. And Sam's becoming Jack's home. Awww... And I probably just ruined that effect for everyone who'll ever read it again.

Tough noogies! I think it's cute!)

And then he was kissing her, right here on the deck he'd built.

She tastes like pears.

-fin-

And that's that. I hope this made even a bit of sense. I'm glad I had the chance to do it because I like explaining the processes I go through to get stuff out. It's probably boring as all hell, but hey. You're the dork who read to the end. ;)

Thanks for reading, both this commentary, and the story. Much love.