Purple Snowflakes
Title: Purple Snowflakes
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Rating: PG
Summary: What she is concerned about at the moment is that the snow packed into the tread of her boot is beginning to melt and she’s sliding and with both hands occupied by the tree and her other foot firmly planted in such a way that moving it would mean complete embarrassment of the ass-in-snow-underneath-tree variety, she can’t actually get into her house. Originally written for Day 14 of that 31 days meme that's floating around.
She curses.
It’s not like the tree’s all that big, but she’s one person. And she’s one person who decided that this year? This year Hammond had given them enough leave that she could buy a real tree and enjoy it and not come home to it completely dead with her living room covered in needles so she was going to have a live tree, dammit. And since the live tree she purchased only an hour earlier is actually shorter than the fake one still in its box in her basement (which she has absolutely no problem maneuvering on her own) she figured that it couldn’t really be that difficult, could it? She’d accepted the tree lot attendant’s help in lashing it to her car, understanding that gravity was only going to be on her side when she needed to get the thing off of her car, and driven on her merry way, humming “Jingle Bells” a little bit off-key.
After a lot of cursing that would probably make even the most vulgar of the SGC personnel blink in shock, she managed to get it off of her car. She’d spent several minutes silently celebrating that victory until she discovered that she still needed to get it over the sidewalk, up the front steps, in the front door and into the living room. On her own. And she suddenly remembers that the easily-maneuverable fake tree that’s still in the basement but totally taller than the real one she’s dragging across her snow-covered sidewalk definitely comes apart.
Halfway across the sidewalk, after glancing around to make sure no one is outside to watch a major in the US Air Force make a fool out of herself with a Christmas tree, she realizes that she’s forgotten how violent real trees are. Years of the fake one and its child-safe branches and its flexible not-quite-right green needles have dulled her memory of scratched arms and bleeding fingers. Even the first year she bought it, when she was up until four in the morning trying to string lights onto its three parts in a manner that made some sort of logical sense, she only ended up with one decent scratch and that was because she’d somehow put the middle section on the bottom first and the whole thing toppled over on top of her and her arm had hit the corner of the coffee table pretty hard.
But now, as she curses again and kicks open the front door with a little more force than is really required (and wonders, again, why her front door is the only one on the planet that doesn’t stay open on its own), she’s positive that her hands are covered in tiny scratches and that there’s sap everywhere on her jacket and that maybe this wasn’t the best idea she’s ever had.
“You okay there, Carter?”
Sam groans and lets her head rest against the doorframe with a thud. Perfect. The tree halfway inside and with one foot on the hardwood floor of her front hall (and threatening to slip out from under her, thanks to the snow covering the front steps that she hadn’t wanted to shovel), the door shutting on her leg, and of course the door slam she’d heard moments earlier couldn’t possibly be from her neighbors. “Colonel,” she says, looking over her shoulder at him. She blows at an errant strand of hair that’s escaped her hat and decided to take up residence right in front of her face. It stays where it is.
“Need a hand?” Jack leans back against his truck and crosses his arms, the leather of his jacket crinkling in the cold. He lifts an eyebrow in amusement, wondering exactly how long it’s going to take her to realize that physics has opted not to be on her side in this particular situation.
It doesn’t occur to her to ask why he’s here. The inexplicable presence of her commanding officer in her driveway on a Saturday when they’ve been promised two weeks of leave isn’t something she’s terrifically concerned about at the moment. She’ll figure that out later. What she is concerned about at the moment is that the snow packed into the tread of her boot is beginning to melt and she’s sliding and with both hands occupied by the tree and her other foot firmly planted in such a way that moving it would mean complete embarrassment of the ass-in-snow-underneath-tree variety, she can’t actually get into her house. “Yeah, sir,” she says with a sheepish grin, “that’d be nice.”
Jack chuckles and trudges through the unshoveled snow on her sidewalk and steps up next to her. He takes the tree from her and bumps the door open with his hip. “Go,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of what he thinks is her living room.
Sam brushes her hands against her jeans, ridding her palms of most of the needles that have opted to fall off, and steps inside, careful to scuff her boots on the door mat so the likelihood of having an ass-on-floor scenario is as low as possible. “Thank you,” she smiles and leads him to her living room and points toward the corner by the fireplace, where she’d thankfully had the forethought to put the tree stand together before she headed out to pick up the tree. She kneels next to it and grasps the bottom of the tree, helping guide Jack to settle it in place.
“Don’t you have a fake one of these?” Jack looks at her quizzically when she stands up, vaguely remembering a heated argument last year between her and Daniel about fake versus real. He can’t help but smile when she takes her hat off and her short blonde hair goes in every direction except the one she planned.
She nods and runs her fingers through her hair. “Yeah. But since I’ll actually be home this year and don’t need to worry about it dying when we’re offworld somewhere, I thought I’d go for the real thing.” She unzips her jacket and goes to hang it up on a hook by the door. “You, uhm, want some coffee or something?”
Unsure what possessed him to drive by her house this afternoon but absolutely sure that coffee will lead to her asking that question and since he has no good answer, Jack shakes his head. “Nah, I gotta go. Errands,” he offers lamely when she quirks an eyebrow as a follow-up.
“Okay. Well, thanks for the help.” Sam conceals her disappointment by turning and leading him to the door.
“Anytime, Carter.” Jack steps outside and turns to face her.
Sam nods, standing just inside the door, and sighs when it hits her shoulders in an attempt to close.
“You should get that fixed. I’m handy with a wrench,” he offers with a grin.
“Really, sir?” Sam raises an eyebrow, imagining that the only thing he’s good at with a wrench is hitting things with it.
He pretends to think for a moment. “No,” he shakes his head. “But I know a guy who is.”
That gets Sam to laugh. “Well if I don’t see you before then, sir, have a Merry Christmas.”
“You too, Carter,” Jack flashes her one more smile before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to walk back to his truck.
Sam waits by the door until he’s backed out of her driveway. She waves at him before he drives off, smiling a little wider when he waves in return, and then heads inside to start decorating.
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Rating: PG
Summary: What she is concerned about at the moment is that the snow packed into the tread of her boot is beginning to melt and she’s sliding and with both hands occupied by the tree and her other foot firmly planted in such a way that moving it would mean complete embarrassment of the ass-in-snow-underneath-tree variety, she can’t actually get into her house. Originally written for Day 14 of that 31 days meme that's floating around.
She curses.
It’s not like the tree’s all that big, but she’s one person. And she’s one person who decided that this year? This year Hammond had given them enough leave that she could buy a real tree and enjoy it and not come home to it completely dead with her living room covered in needles so she was going to have a live tree, dammit. And since the live tree she purchased only an hour earlier is actually shorter than the fake one still in its box in her basement (which she has absolutely no problem maneuvering on her own) she figured that it couldn’t really be that difficult, could it? She’d accepted the tree lot attendant’s help in lashing it to her car, understanding that gravity was only going to be on her side when she needed to get the thing off of her car, and driven on her merry way, humming “Jingle Bells” a little bit off-key.
After a lot of cursing that would probably make even the most vulgar of the SGC personnel blink in shock, she managed to get it off of her car. She’d spent several minutes silently celebrating that victory until she discovered that she still needed to get it over the sidewalk, up the front steps, in the front door and into the living room. On her own. And she suddenly remembers that the easily-maneuverable fake tree that’s still in the basement but totally taller than the real one she’s dragging across her snow-covered sidewalk definitely comes apart.
Halfway across the sidewalk, after glancing around to make sure no one is outside to watch a major in the US Air Force make a fool out of herself with a Christmas tree, she realizes that she’s forgotten how violent real trees are. Years of the fake one and its child-safe branches and its flexible not-quite-right green needles have dulled her memory of scratched arms and bleeding fingers. Even the first year she bought it, when she was up until four in the morning trying to string lights onto its three parts in a manner that made some sort of logical sense, she only ended up with one decent scratch and that was because she’d somehow put the middle section on the bottom first and the whole thing toppled over on top of her and her arm had hit the corner of the coffee table pretty hard.
But now, as she curses again and kicks open the front door with a little more force than is really required (and wonders, again, why her front door is the only one on the planet that doesn’t stay open on its own), she’s positive that her hands are covered in tiny scratches and that there’s sap everywhere on her jacket and that maybe this wasn’t the best idea she’s ever had.
“You okay there, Carter?”
Sam groans and lets her head rest against the doorframe with a thud. Perfect. The tree halfway inside and with one foot on the hardwood floor of her front hall (and threatening to slip out from under her, thanks to the snow covering the front steps that she hadn’t wanted to shovel), the door shutting on her leg, and of course the door slam she’d heard moments earlier couldn’t possibly be from her neighbors. “Colonel,” she says, looking over her shoulder at him. She blows at an errant strand of hair that’s escaped her hat and decided to take up residence right in front of her face. It stays where it is.
“Need a hand?” Jack leans back against his truck and crosses his arms, the leather of his jacket crinkling in the cold. He lifts an eyebrow in amusement, wondering exactly how long it’s going to take her to realize that physics has opted not to be on her side in this particular situation.
It doesn’t occur to her to ask why he’s here. The inexplicable presence of her commanding officer in her driveway on a Saturday when they’ve been promised two weeks of leave isn’t something she’s terrifically concerned about at the moment. She’ll figure that out later. What she is concerned about at the moment is that the snow packed into the tread of her boot is beginning to melt and she’s sliding and with both hands occupied by the tree and her other foot firmly planted in such a way that moving it would mean complete embarrassment of the ass-in-snow-underneath-tree variety, she can’t actually get into her house. “Yeah, sir,” she says with a sheepish grin, “that’d be nice.”
Jack chuckles and trudges through the unshoveled snow on her sidewalk and steps up next to her. He takes the tree from her and bumps the door open with his hip. “Go,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of what he thinks is her living room.
Sam brushes her hands against her jeans, ridding her palms of most of the needles that have opted to fall off, and steps inside, careful to scuff her boots on the door mat so the likelihood of having an ass-on-floor scenario is as low as possible. “Thank you,” she smiles and leads him to her living room and points toward the corner by the fireplace, where she’d thankfully had the forethought to put the tree stand together before she headed out to pick up the tree. She kneels next to it and grasps the bottom of the tree, helping guide Jack to settle it in place.
“Don’t you have a fake one of these?” Jack looks at her quizzically when she stands up, vaguely remembering a heated argument last year between her and Daniel about fake versus real. He can’t help but smile when she takes her hat off and her short blonde hair goes in every direction except the one she planned.
She nods and runs her fingers through her hair. “Yeah. But since I’ll actually be home this year and don’t need to worry about it dying when we’re offworld somewhere, I thought I’d go for the real thing.” She unzips her jacket and goes to hang it up on a hook by the door. “You, uhm, want some coffee or something?”
Unsure what possessed him to drive by her house this afternoon but absolutely sure that coffee will lead to her asking that question and since he has no good answer, Jack shakes his head. “Nah, I gotta go. Errands,” he offers lamely when she quirks an eyebrow as a follow-up.
“Okay. Well, thanks for the help.” Sam conceals her disappointment by turning and leading him to the door.
“Anytime, Carter.” Jack steps outside and turns to face her.
Sam nods, standing just inside the door, and sighs when it hits her shoulders in an attempt to close.
“You should get that fixed. I’m handy with a wrench,” he offers with a grin.
“Really, sir?” Sam raises an eyebrow, imagining that the only thing he’s good at with a wrench is hitting things with it.
He pretends to think for a moment. “No,” he shakes his head. “But I know a guy who is.”
That gets Sam to laugh. “Well if I don’t see you before then, sir, have a Merry Christmas.”
“You too, Carter,” Jack flashes her one more smile before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to walk back to his truck.
Sam waits by the door until he’s backed out of her driveway. She waves at him before he drives off, smiling a little wider when he waves in return, and then heads inside to start decorating.