Fic | Normal | Sam/Baal (SG1) [FRC]
Fandom: Stargate SG1
Characters: Baal, Sam Carter
Pairing: Sam/Baal
Written for: scifiland ILYLP [I love you like pancake]
Rating: FRC
Word Count: 1,284
Summary: Baal's been living with Sam for six weeks, in which she's discovered a few little quirks - and a liking for pancakes. With lots of syrup.
Soft yellow light washes through Sam's kitchen window. She pauses in her breakfast making to watch the sun inch higher. The sky is blue with only a handful of fluffy clouds and it looks set to be a beautiful day. She smiles and hums along with the radio.
One thing she's learn in the past six weeks is that Baal is not a morning person. He wakes grumpy and even more sarcastic than he is usually and there's always the small risk of small explosions or broken crockery. But she's learnt the one thing that will bring him round and it doesn't even take that much.
Pancakes are cooking on the griddle.
He'll have them smothered in enough maple syrup to account for a mid-sized forest and just like that her grizzly bear will become a contended cat and nothing will be reduced to naquadah-laced rubble.
She hears him long before he emerges. Her smile widens at a low mutter in Goa'uld - she's not sure what it translates as and is quite happy in her ignorance - then jolts at a crash.
There's a long, tense silence, then his rather apologetic voice floats down the corridor. “Sorry.”
Rolling her eyes, she calls back, “You're cleaning that up.”
He appears at the doorway, bleary-eyed and adorably dishevelled, and she wonders if she'll ever get used to seeing this side of him. She smiles at him, but he's too busy rubbing at his face. He meanders over, brightening a little as he takes in the griddle.
“Hm, pancakes.”
He sidles up behind her and nuzzles at her neck. She squeaks at the rub of stubble and his chuckle rumbles all the way to her soles. She bats him on the arm with her spatula.
“That prickles! Get off.”
“Spoilsport.” He leans his chin on her shoulder. “Are those nearly ready? I'm starving.”
Sam rolls her eyes and points at the table. “Go sit down. I'll be with you in a moment.”
He pats her ass and tosses her a smirk as he does as he's told. She shakes her head and tries to concentrate, but she's distracted by his curiously good mood.
“So what did you break?” she asks him.
Guilt washes over his face. “It was an accident.”
“Baal.”
“The lamp on the nightstand.” He winces as she glares at him. “I didn't mean to. I...” Two spots of colour flare on his cheeks, startling her. “It was an accident,” he mutters.
Grumpy and clumsy, huh, who knew? Sam hides a smile and turns out the last pancake, taking a plateful and the bottle of syrup over to the table.
“We can always get another I suppose,” she sighs, then gives him a steady look. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“I'm fine.”
“Ah.” She doubts even a symbiote can heal damaged pride. She pushes the bottle towards him. “Here, eat up. You're always better once you've gotten some sugar in your system.”
The amount of syrup he puts on makes her teeth ache. Propping her chin on one hand, she watches him devour - and there is no other word for it - his breakfast. Each movement is crisp and neat, and it takes all his intention. She figures he'd not even notice a bomb going off.
She actually sees when his blood sugar levels out: tension drops out of his shoulders and the fork slows. After a moment, he lifts his head and meets her amused gaze.
“What?” he asks around a mouthful, his eyebrows drawing together. “Something amusing you, Samantha?”
“Hm, yes. You. I've never seen anyone attack breakfast like you do.”
“I'm hungry,” he says, tone a protest. “And since I'm not allowed the regenerative properties of a sarcophagus...”
Sam suppresses a shudder. “No.”
“Then I need to keep my energy levels up.” He smirks. “Especially since you are so determined to deplete them.”
“I could stop that, if you wanted.”
“Don't you dare.”
Laughing at him, she pushes up from the table and goes to collect the mail. Six weeks and they've settled into a routine, normal, domesticated. Every so often, it catches her unawares and she wonders how, when he's a Goa'uld and an ex-System Lord, and she is supposed to be on the team that's taking them down.
But he's long stopped being that sort of threat, though she doubts he's fully tamed. She doesn't want him to be, either.
“Anything interesting?” he asks as she shuffles through the envelops. She knows what he means by that.
“I wouldn't have thought-” She gets no further - there's one marked with a presidential seal of all things and she looks up at him, hardly daring to move. “Crap.”
“I suggest that you open it before reaching a conclusion, Sam.”
She swallows and slides a finger under the flap, pulls out a single sheet of paper. There's something about protocol and mention of constraints, but she only gets as far as “not an immediate threat” and “unnecessary supervision” before bursting into tears of utter relief.
Baal snatches the letter from her hand and reads it once, twice, then gives her a puzzled look. “Why ever are you crying? This is good, is it not?”
“It's brilliant,” she sniffs and dries her eyes. “Sorry, but that's been hanging over us for six weeks. I really thought the IOA will haul you in regardless.”
“Like hell they would.” His expression is fierce. “I've done everything they asked, answered every question as well as I could.”
“I know but-”
“They would have to kill me before-”
He stops and looks away. Sam frowns.
“Before what?” she presses, gently. He stabs at the last pancake. “Baal?”
“It's not for the love of pancakes that I have behaved myself,” he grouses.
Warmth fills her and she reaches out for his hand. It's clenched tight and she sweeps her thumb over white knuckles. His eyes flicker up to her face and then down again. His lips twitch into the briefest of smiles and then he hitches a shoulder.
“As you know,” he adds somewhat belatedly.
“I do.”
Pulling her hand back, she picks up the bottle. A bead of syrup is threatening to run down the side. She catches it with her forefinger and tastes the rich sweetness. Looking up, she finds him watching her and so sucks her finger again. He swallows hard.
“I think-” Her voice emerges husky and she has to cough to clear her throat. “I think we should celebrate. Preferably by... ah, depleting your energy reserves again. Maybe...” She toys with the bottle. “Maybe if you like your pancakes sweet, and you love those almost as much as you do me, then maybe...”
She leaves him to reach the right conclusion, which he does because he is that intelligent after all. His smirk is downright wicked and she's very glad that the IOA doesn't see it.
Then again, the only thing in danger of incinerating right now is her, because the look he gives her burns in her veins and heats her skin.
“Whatever plans you had for today, I suggest you cancel them.” Baal rises smoothly and holds out a hand. “I'm commandeering your entire day, Samantha. Bring snacks.”
It's not normal, and probably won't ever be, but normal is dull.
Baal very definitely isn't, and it turns out that pancakes aren't the only things he loves smothered in syrup.
Characters: Baal, Sam Carter
Pairing: Sam/Baal
Written for: scifiland ILYLP [I love you like pancake]
Rating: FRC
Word Count: 1,284
Summary: Baal's been living with Sam for six weeks, in which she's discovered a few little quirks - and a liking for pancakes. With lots of syrup.
Soft yellow light washes through Sam's kitchen window. She pauses in her breakfast making to watch the sun inch higher. The sky is blue with only a handful of fluffy clouds and it looks set to be a beautiful day. She smiles and hums along with the radio.
One thing she's learn in the past six weeks is that Baal is not a morning person. He wakes grumpy and even more sarcastic than he is usually and there's always the small risk of small explosions or broken crockery. But she's learnt the one thing that will bring him round and it doesn't even take that much.
Pancakes are cooking on the griddle.
He'll have them smothered in enough maple syrup to account for a mid-sized forest and just like that her grizzly bear will become a contended cat and nothing will be reduced to naquadah-laced rubble.
She hears him long before he emerges. Her smile widens at a low mutter in Goa'uld - she's not sure what it translates as and is quite happy in her ignorance - then jolts at a crash.
There's a long, tense silence, then his rather apologetic voice floats down the corridor. “Sorry.”
Rolling her eyes, she calls back, “You're cleaning that up.”
He appears at the doorway, bleary-eyed and adorably dishevelled, and she wonders if she'll ever get used to seeing this side of him. She smiles at him, but he's too busy rubbing at his face. He meanders over, brightening a little as he takes in the griddle.
“Hm, pancakes.”
He sidles up behind her and nuzzles at her neck. She squeaks at the rub of stubble and his chuckle rumbles all the way to her soles. She bats him on the arm with her spatula.
“That prickles! Get off.”
“Spoilsport.” He leans his chin on her shoulder. “Are those nearly ready? I'm starving.”
Sam rolls her eyes and points at the table. “Go sit down. I'll be with you in a moment.”
He pats her ass and tosses her a smirk as he does as he's told. She shakes her head and tries to concentrate, but she's distracted by his curiously good mood.
“So what did you break?” she asks him.
Guilt washes over his face. “It was an accident.”
“Baal.”
“The lamp on the nightstand.” He winces as she glares at him. “I didn't mean to. I...” Two spots of colour flare on his cheeks, startling her. “It was an accident,” he mutters.
Grumpy and clumsy, huh, who knew? Sam hides a smile and turns out the last pancake, taking a plateful and the bottle of syrup over to the table.
“We can always get another I suppose,” she sighs, then gives him a steady look. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“I'm fine.”
“Ah.” She doubts even a symbiote can heal damaged pride. She pushes the bottle towards him. “Here, eat up. You're always better once you've gotten some sugar in your system.”
The amount of syrup he puts on makes her teeth ache. Propping her chin on one hand, she watches him devour - and there is no other word for it - his breakfast. Each movement is crisp and neat, and it takes all his intention. She figures he'd not even notice a bomb going off.
She actually sees when his blood sugar levels out: tension drops out of his shoulders and the fork slows. After a moment, he lifts his head and meets her amused gaze.
“What?” he asks around a mouthful, his eyebrows drawing together. “Something amusing you, Samantha?”
“Hm, yes. You. I've never seen anyone attack breakfast like you do.”
“I'm hungry,” he says, tone a protest. “And since I'm not allowed the regenerative properties of a sarcophagus...”
Sam suppresses a shudder. “No.”
“Then I need to keep my energy levels up.” He smirks. “Especially since you are so determined to deplete them.”
“I could stop that, if you wanted.”
“Don't you dare.”
Laughing at him, she pushes up from the table and goes to collect the mail. Six weeks and they've settled into a routine, normal, domesticated. Every so often, it catches her unawares and she wonders how, when he's a Goa'uld and an ex-System Lord, and she is supposed to be on the team that's taking them down.
But he's long stopped being that sort of threat, though she doubts he's fully tamed. She doesn't want him to be, either.
“Anything interesting?” he asks as she shuffles through the envelops. She knows what he means by that.
“I wouldn't have thought-” She gets no further - there's one marked with a presidential seal of all things and she looks up at him, hardly daring to move. “Crap.”
“I suggest that you open it before reaching a conclusion, Sam.”
She swallows and slides a finger under the flap, pulls out a single sheet of paper. There's something about protocol and mention of constraints, but she only gets as far as “not an immediate threat” and “unnecessary supervision” before bursting into tears of utter relief.
Baal snatches the letter from her hand and reads it once, twice, then gives her a puzzled look. “Why ever are you crying? This is good, is it not?”
“It's brilliant,” she sniffs and dries her eyes. “Sorry, but that's been hanging over us for six weeks. I really thought the IOA will haul you in regardless.”
“Like hell they would.” His expression is fierce. “I've done everything they asked, answered every question as well as I could.”
“I know but-”
“They would have to kill me before-”
He stops and looks away. Sam frowns.
“Before what?” she presses, gently. He stabs at the last pancake. “Baal?”
“It's not for the love of pancakes that I have behaved myself,” he grouses.
Warmth fills her and she reaches out for his hand. It's clenched tight and she sweeps her thumb over white knuckles. His eyes flicker up to her face and then down again. His lips twitch into the briefest of smiles and then he hitches a shoulder.
“As you know,” he adds somewhat belatedly.
“I do.”
Pulling her hand back, she picks up the bottle. A bead of syrup is threatening to run down the side. She catches it with her forefinger and tastes the rich sweetness. Looking up, she finds him watching her and so sucks her finger again. He swallows hard.
“I think-” Her voice emerges husky and she has to cough to clear her throat. “I think we should celebrate. Preferably by... ah, depleting your energy reserves again. Maybe...” She toys with the bottle. “Maybe if you like your pancakes sweet, and you love those almost as much as you do me, then maybe...”
She leaves him to reach the right conclusion, which he does because he is that intelligent after all. His smirk is downright wicked and she's very glad that the IOA doesn't see it.
Then again, the only thing in danger of incinerating right now is her, because the look he gives her burns in her veins and heats her skin.
“Whatever plans you had for today, I suggest you cancel them.” Baal rises smoothly and holds out a hand. “I'm commandeering your entire day, Samantha. Bring snacks.”
It's not normal, and probably won't ever be, but normal is dull.
Baal very definitely isn't, and it turns out that pancakes aren't the only things he loves smothered in syrup.