FATHER, WHERE ART THOU?

Jack slowed his bike as he neared the two-story, blue house on his right. He didn't know why he was here. Come to think of it, the last time he'd seen this house was during some Goa'uld torture session years ago, even though he now lived just a few blocks away.

As he turned into the driveway, Jack felt both relieved and disappointed to find the resident's car there. Why did this seem to hard? He'd known this person for years before he ever found out about the SGC.

Nudging the kickstand into place, he stopped his bike beside a smaller one. Jack sat there for a moment, staring at the tiny bicycle. He remembered taking the training wheels off one at a time as a young, blonde-haired boy stood nearby, watching eagerly. He recalled how many scrapes that boy had earned trying to learn to ride, but not a one had hindered the boy's enthusiasm.

Jack finally pulled his eyes away, desperately trying to keep tears from escaping his eyes. Almost ten years had passed; it shouldn't have hurt so much anymore, but it did. It must be horrible for her, he thought. And I left her here alone. k

He dismounted and walked up the sidewalk, which seemed to have magically, mockingly become ten times its normal length. Finally, he found himself at the front door. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, settling into an uneasy weight, but why? She wouldn't recognize him.

But he would recognize her.

Before he could do anything, the front door opened, revealing the worn and tattered face of an old man. "Hello," the man greeted pleasantly enough.

"Um." Jack shifted his weight, uncertain of what to do. "Is Sara O'Neill home?"

"Yes," the man replied, seeming a little baffled. He looked back into the house. "Here she is." Then he retreated into another room.

Sara stepped up to the door and studied the teen expectantly. For a few moments, neither could say anything. "Can I help you?" she finally asked.

Now that he'd gotten here, he could not figure what to say. "A friend of mine asked me to stop by and see how you're doing," he finally answered.

Her eyebrows rose. "Really? Who?"

Jack shrugged, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. "A Colonel Jack O'Neill."

Sara's eyes narrowed. "He couldn't come ask himself?" she demanded angrily.

Jack gulped. He was asking himself, wasn't he? Curse Loki! He couldn't tell her the truth! Maybe he could give her an explanation she'd accept. "Remember the last time you met? At the hospital?"

Her eyes watered, and she bit her lip. "Yes. Another Jack had showed up earlier, looking for Charlie." A tear slipped down her cheek. "When he left, the Jack that came to the hospital after us, he was holding Charlie's hand and walking him out. He said it wasn't Charlie, but it looked like him."

I remember that. When he and I got back to his world, he just went back into that crystal. The guy was as confusing as Oma Desala. Jack looked up at her, still trying to find something to say.

"You're him, aren't you?" Sara breathed.

Jack stared; how could she know?

"Charlie would have been sixteen this year," she explained. "Are you him?"

He stared a bit longer before shaking his head. "No, I'm not."

Sara's gaze hardened as she accepted this; she gained control over a tiny trickle of tears. "So why did Jack send you?"

"He thought you might want someone to talk to, someone who knows him well," the clone replied, briefly wondering what would happen if she called SG-1's leader.

"And how do you know him?"

"He, uh, saved my life during one of his missions. After that, he was just like a father to me." As he said this, Jack realized that it would remind Sara of Charlie again, maybe make her think that he was a kind of reincarnation of her son.

"You keep saying he sent you. Why did you come?"