Disclaimer: Not mine.

Notes: No clue how this plays out, really. Just.. Harry Maybourne going insane in my head, during Paradise Lost. The one lyrical line is Garbage's "When I Grow Up". There was an impressive list of "my head is fucked up" songs playing while I wrote this. Winamp is bad for my morals. And the title is stolen whole from a My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult song.

Spoilers: Duh.

Rating: Eh. R.

Electrical Soul Wish

by Ana Lyssie Cotton

He once had respect for Jack.

"Sir, permission to beat the crap out of this man."

Okay, so it hadn't been an auspicious beginning. But he'd known Jack O'Neill, men like him. Commanded a few here and there (commanded Jack, at least once, but the Colonel had never known it. And they'd both only been Majors, then). There was an integrity to Jack O'Neill that only certain types of people could match.

"C'mon, Harry. It's Carter."

Words that could have made another man simply blink in incomprehension.

But Harry Maybourne knew Jack O'Neill, understood him down to the ground. And the words had simply fueled something he'd always known.

Jack, Jack, Jack. The man knew how to get a job done and did it with a lot of style. Not so much grace, but a lot of style. Want something blown up? No problem. Got a dictator you need shot at point-blank range in front of thousands by his deputy? No problem. Got a planet needing saving? No problem.

Stick the man in front of a lake, with fish for once, and a nice sun. And he'd be happy.


"Stop eatin' that plant! It's messin' with your head, Harry!"

Was not. Was not. Wasn't! He was just being paranoid. Right, Jack? Right.

Wait. No.

More. Paranoid. Jack. Get it right.

Henry Ernest "My name is not Mud" Maybourne was paranoid. It kept him alive. It kept him from getting fucked six ways to Sunday by every black ops cartel. Paranoid. Paranoid. Paranoid.

Of course he was paranoid, for cryin' out loud! He was stuck on a fucking deserted planet with Jack "God's gift to Earth" O'Neill!

Black and white and black and white and red all over.

Newspapers never bleed on you.

Battles fought over coffee tables with men who play checkers using pieces from broken and burned Scrabble games. And he'd lost those, usually.

"I'm not going to hit you, Maybourne, I'm gonna shoot you."

Guns. Children playing with them, safeties off, and down down to happy land-- He jerks away from the memory of children playing in the street while bombs went off around them. A little girl dying in his lap, her blonde hair spilling over one arm. And it was strawberry blonde now.

Blood is thicker than water. Isn't that something the Marines claim as they run around chasing their tails?

"On a cruise to freak you out."

Wait. That wasn't something Jack had said. And there were so many things to remember that Jack had said. Because Jack was an important man, Jack lied and Jack fought and Jack-- Harry! Get a grip on yourself, man!

"On my planet I would be within my rights to gut you."

Not Jack either.

"I d'no, that urge to shoot you is creeping back."

Now, that. That was Jack.

An explosion distracts him and he rolls and stands. Maybe there's more fish to eat. Or another animal. And he's so damned SICK of this plant thing.

"I don't even like arugala."

No. No he didn't. He could stand meal worms and delicacy-laden dishes from India (although the monkey brains had once turned his stomach, but that was a long time ago), Iraq, America, France... Even frog legs fried and served up with curry sauce.

Although, those would be kinda tasty right about now.

"Jack O'Neill loves Samantha Carter!"

A sing-song voice was required for that shout.

Can't quite get it, but he can carve it into a hundred thousand trees. Carve it on the lake, since Jack's soul certainly never forgets it.

And that's the thing he's not supposed to understand, of course. But he does.

Jack O'Neill had been his course of study. Three years at the Pentagon, countless before that. And then nearly three on the run from the wrong side of the law. And through it all, he's watched Jack. He'd changed, time changes many things of course. And no one can remain the same unless they're living in a void. And there was no void where the stargate was concerned.

He'd missed it, of course.

Point-blank range, and searing pain. And blood and death and destruction on a scale more massive than time immemorial. And he's insane now, he thinks. Insane and fucked in the head and so fucking lost. This was supposed to be his retirement!

His reward for losing everything to Jack O'Neill.

The off-world NID operation had collapsed inwards once Jack O'Neill was allowed near it. And Harry should have known. Should have seen... Another man would have.

Jack, himself, might have.

Candles. Wasn't there some survival guide once that told how to make candles from turtle wax? Or was that something you used on your car. Rending the fat into tallow. That was it. And you could boil the bones for jello.

Gave a whole new meaning to grinding his bones to make bread.

"You're eating my dog."

Mm. Dog. He could kill for chicken chow mein a la dog. There was that little Cantonese place in Reseda street...

Jack wouldn't have liked it there. Pity.

He once had respect for Jack. Doesn't mean he's not gonna kill him soon.