"Little Things" VIII
Title: To Everything, A Season
Rating: G
Pairing: Sheppard/Weir
Length: Drabble
Summary: "Goodbye" leaves a place for "Hello."
Author's Note: All drabbles can be read as stand-alone, or as they were intended to, as part of a series. This is the final part.
The Little Things I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII.
The afternoon drizzle has turned into an evening rainfall that keeps the families inside their warm, safe houses, doors all up and down the street shut firmly against the elements. All but one, that is, where the entryway light spills across the threshold and reflects off the wet pavement, a reminder of foreign stars scattered upon an alien ocean.
Elizabeth, curled in a chair with a familiar copy of War and Peace, looks up from the worn pages at the sound of a tail thumping gently against the floor. Sedge has risen from her position sprawled in front of the storm door and now sits staring expectantly into the night, her whole being focused on whatever - or whoever - is out there.
“No squirrels today,” she says with a laugh, and sinks back into her reading. Seconds later, an elated bark startles her out of her reverie, and she straightens to watch her normally shy dog nose the door eagerly, scratching to get out - the ritual Sedge only performs upon her return from a long absence. And because she remembers the definition of “miracle” they found galaxies away, Elizabeth looks again into the dark street.
Slowly, out of the blur of the rain, a man with his hands shoved into jean pockets appears, hair undaunted by the soaking. John Sheppard, presumed KIA on that last, desperate run in Atlantis, gives her a lopsided smile from the other side of the door.
Rating: G
Pairing: Sheppard/Weir
Length: Drabble
Summary: "Goodbye" leaves a place for "Hello."
Author's Note: All drabbles can be read as stand-alone, or as they were intended to, as part of a series. This is the final part.
The Little Things I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII.
The afternoon drizzle has turned into an evening rainfall that keeps the families inside their warm, safe houses, doors all up and down the street shut firmly against the elements. All but one, that is, where the entryway light spills across the threshold and reflects off the wet pavement, a reminder of foreign stars scattered upon an alien ocean.
Elizabeth, curled in a chair with a familiar copy of War and Peace, looks up from the worn pages at the sound of a tail thumping gently against the floor. Sedge has risen from her position sprawled in front of the storm door and now sits staring expectantly into the night, her whole being focused on whatever - or whoever - is out there.
“No squirrels today,” she says with a laugh, and sinks back into her reading. Seconds later, an elated bark startles her out of her reverie, and she straightens to watch her normally shy dog nose the door eagerly, scratching to get out - the ritual Sedge only performs upon her return from a long absence. And because she remembers the definition of “miracle” they found galaxies away, Elizabeth looks again into the dark street.
Slowly, out of the blur of the rain, a man with his hands shoved into jean pockets appears, hair undaunted by the soaking. John Sheppard, presumed KIA on that last, desperate run in Atlantis, gives her a lopsided smile from the other side of the door.