Gone Fishing

Title: Gone Fishing

Fandom: Stargate SG-1 and Farscape crossover
Characters: Jack O’Neill and Jack Crichton
Summary: The Jack’s go fishing… sort of!
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. Not even the plotbunny as it was given to me!
Archive: At Ink-and-Quill. Anywhere else, please ask.

Summary: Jack O’Neill and Jack Crichton go fishing. Stargate/Farscape crossover.

Gone Fishing?
by Christina A.

Jack O’Neill cast his line and quickly found his favorite sitting spot. He sat down, lowered his hat on his forehead, and closed his eyes.

“That’s no way to fish,” Jack Crichton playfully admonished as he stood by the other Air Force Colonel and cast his line into the lake.

O’Neill opened one eye and looked speculatively at his long-time friend. “Hey Bub, you fish your way; I’ll fish mine.” As if to prove his point, he picked up his bottle of beer and took a long swallow of the cool amber liquid. “See, it’s perfect.”

“And just how many fish do you catch this way?” Crichton continued in jest.

“Hey now! That is not the point! You are an overachiever. Always have been. It’s the form that’s most important.” He closed his eyes again.

Crichton shook his head, reeled in his line, and cast it again. “I have excellent form.” He pointed at his friend. “And I’m NOT an overachiever.”

“YeahSure, and I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

“Nice to meet you, Your Majesty.”

At that comment, both men relaxed again and smiled. O’Neill’s eyes remained closed as his line bobbed lazily in the lake. Every once in a while, the wind would blow and the line would move a little more vigorously in the water. Other than that, there was no movement by O’Neill or his fishing line.

Crichton spent several more silent minutes casting out and reeling in his line. Periodically, he’d glance over at his friend who actually looked to be sleeping. About a half hour later, he laughed. The noise caused O’Neill to open one eye again and look at his friend. “There are no fish in this lake, are there, O’Neill?”

The other man smiled and touched his finger to his nose. “Bingo, my friend. Been coming here, oh, many years, and never caught one damn fish.”

Crichton finally sat down and shook his head. “Then why even bother fishing at all?”

Sighing, he gave up all pretense of sleeping and looked fully at his friend.

Crichton just laughed and held up his hands. “Right. It’s the form that counts.”

O’Neill nodded. “That and I have this great cabin. If you have a cabin on a lake in Minnesota, you have to fish,” he said this very matter-of-factly… like that alone should explain everything.

The retired Air Force Colonel stood up again and cast his line. “Just like if you have a boat in Florida, you have to either sail or fish.”

“Smart man.”

“Except there are fish out in the ocean, Jack,” Crichton pointed out with a smirk. “Nice big ones too.”

“True, Jack. But catching one… that’s a lot of work.” He picked up his beer and tilted it toward his friend. “This… much more vacation-like. Now, grab a beer and sit down already.”

The elder man conceded and joined his friend again. “Next year, you come to Florida. We’ll go sailing and bar-b-que. You can visit the girls. Bobby’s gonna be driving soon.”

“Is he *that* old already? Christ, you’re getting old!”

“Very funny, O’Neill,” the other man laughed. “Still in better shape than you are.”

“No argument there. But I don’t have the luxury of retirement. I keep doing it; they keep dragging me back.”

Crichton took a long pull on the beer he was holding. “They miss your cheery disposition.”

“Bull. They love torturing me.”

“They do it almost as well as you do to yourself.”

“Easy,” O’Neill said, smiling as he pointed to a spot on the other side of the lake. “You could always fish over there, you know?”

“If I thought I could catch a fish over there, I may try it.”

“See,” O’Neill sat up a bit. “That… right there… you are an overachiever. You have nothing to prove to anyone. Sit back, relax, drink a few beers, and watch the line bob up and down on the water until you fall asleep and dream of beautiful women feeding you popcorn while watching a hockey game.”

Crichton laughed at that. “So *that’s* what you really do up here?”

“Hell yes! I’m on vacation.”

The other Jack had to concede that maybe, just for once, O’Neill had a point. So he stood, cast his line, and then found himself a comfy sitting spot where he lowered the hat on his head and closed his eyes. Jack O’Neill was a terrible influence… one of the worst ever. But he was a friend… a true friend. Although this was not Jack Crichton’s ideal way to fish, he had to admit that it was perhaps the most relaxing. As he drifted off to sleep, he decided that he would NOT, however, tell O’Neill he was right. Crichton was a smart man. No way would he give O’Neill the satisfaction; he’d never hear the end of it.

The End

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