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.

I'm going to kill that bird. Slowly, painfully. I don't give a damn if it's endangered or not. I don't care if Mrs. Pembroke sics the ASPCA on my ass…I am going to kill that bird.

Of course, I'd have to get out of bed first, and that would defeat the purpose.

What kind of sadist made the 'birds sing at dawn' rule? Why can't our fine feathered friends sing at dusk? Nah. That'd suck too. Ok, noon then. When I'm at work.

What kind of cosmic practical joke is it that says as you grow older the nights get shorter? And the mornings rougher.

I remember when I used to be able to raise hell until 0300, catch a couple of hours shut-eye and still be able to be up by 0600 and ready for duty. Now it takes me at least an hour to get up and moving, and if I try getting by on less than five or six hours I end up yawning my ass off during a briefing.

And let's not even go into how long it takes me to get this creaky old body going. I'm not just talking about my knees, I'm talking about my hands, how my knuckles ache first thing in the morning. Or the leg cramps that sometimes wake me up in the middle of the night. And let's not go into the hair. No, not on my head. Lower…much lower.

Modesty's not the reason I'm starting to want to shower alone.

I roll over and pull the pillow over my head. The alarm should go off any time now. I don't have to be in until late, relatively speaking. Fortunately there's no briefings scheduled today. No missions either. Just paperwork, much paperwork.

Realistically, I could go back to sleep for another hour or two. Hammond won't care. He's not a huge stickler on the whole forty hour work week bit. Course that may be because if he was he'd blow the budget paying Carter her overtime. Daniel too for that matter.

Aah crap. Just had to do that didn't I? There's another part about getting old, your bladder shrinks. Some days I swear to god pregnant women have it better. Now I gotta get up, even if I don't want to. I should not have had that beer last night.

Maybe it'll go away? Maybe I can…nope, not gonna be that easy.

What the hell? Might as well get up and get moving. If I'm glutton enough for punishment I can hit the bakery on my way in and get me one of those great cinnamon rolls of theirs. The ones that are fresh baked every morning, bigger than my hand and covered in that thick sweet icing.

My eyes half shut, I push back the covers, making one hell of a mess of the sheets. I sorta roll out of bed, almost a controlled fall. I start towards the bathroom, cursing as my feet get tangled in my sweats. Damn cheap things. I just bought them last month and the elastic is shot already.

Hitching them up I continue to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the lights, fortunately Thomas Crapper gave us a large enough target to hit.

Pulling down the sweat pants I reach for myself, frowning when I grab hold. This…isn't…right. Something isn't…right.

Fumbling for the light switch I yank on the cord, squinting at the sudden brightness. Blinking to clear my eyes, I look down, confirming with my eyes what my hands told me.

What the fuck? No. NO. This is NOT right. This just isn't something that happens. I know they say if you don't use it you lose it, but I don't think this is what they mean.

I look at my hands. They're smooth. Where'd the calluses go? How about that scar on my right thumb? My arms are the same way, thinner, and smoother.

A horrifying realization sinks into my brain and I hurry back into my bedroom, using both hands to pull up the baggy pants. Reaching the full length mirror, I yank the t-shirt over my head, stepping back to get a good look. Hips barely large enough to keep the sweats up, a flat hairless chest, devoid of the scars that I know used to be there. Thin arms leading up to narrow shoulders and a scrawny neck.

I run my hand over the face in the mirror, feeling smooth skin instead of the stubble I should be waking up with. I can feel my fingers, but I shouldn't be able to, that's not my face they're touching. I run my fingers through his….my hair. It's brown. God, I can't remember the last time I had brown hair. I trace over rough reddened skin on my forehead.

No. NO. NO! This is not happening. This is….for cryin out loud, it's bad enough I'm a munchkin but do I have to have ZITS!

~Fin~

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