fic: details (stargate sg1)
stargate_las challenge response: routines.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: She's missed him.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Sam/Jack
SPOILERS: A Hundred Days (3x17)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: Unbeta'd. Sorry.
WORDS: 784
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; September 2010.
* * * * *
Details by anr
* * * * *
Sometimes, she thinks, details matter.
It's not time for her to leave, but she's leaving anyway. Putting aside figures she's reviewed only a dozen different times, closing her laptop. Dumping her coffee mug onto a tray that, when full at the end of the week, will be dutifully returned to the commissary. Brushing her hair from her eyes, stuffing a sheaf of print-outs into her backpack, slapping the light switch to off.
Going home, even though it's not time for her to leave yet.
It's not usual for her to take Mesa, but she's taking it anyway. Turning right off the avenue, left onto Aspen. Watching people she's never seen before live their lives: neighbours dragging garbage cans to the curb in the late twilight, calling in children from pavement games. A life that's not hers running past her window at a steady forty-miles-per-hour.
Driving home, even though it's not the way she usually goes.
It's not right for the mailbox to be overflowing, but that's the way it is. The lawn needs mowing and the front step's covered in newspapers. She's gathering them up and fumbling for her hook pick and torque wrench. Someone should really sweep the footpath, but she'll think about that tomorrow.
Arriving home, even though that's not quite true.
*
Details. The little things. Things that sometimes matter.
This isn't her house, but she's wondering if she's home anyway. If it could be. Keeping the lights off as she leaves the newspapers and mail on the kitchen bench. Dumping her jacket and backpack on an empty sofa, lingering briefly at the flashing message display on the answering machine. She doesn't press the button, preferring the silence.
She's home, but she's not sure why she's calling it that.
This isn't her room, but she's standing there anyway. Staring at a not-quite-closed wardrobe door, leaning against a pine dresser. There's a dark green comforter on the bed; the cotton's soft beneath her fingertips. She sits on the edge of the mattress and unties her boots carefully, one lace at a time.
She's tired, but she doesn't think she can sleep.
This isn't her bathroom, but she's brushing her teeth anyway. Not looking in the mirror, in case she sees herself. Searching out a t-shirt, because she's sick of looking like she's supposed to. Pulling back sheets that smell just a little faded, resting her cheek against a pillow that's not really hers. Breathing deeply, just in case it helps.
She's here, but she shouldn't be.
*
Ninety-nine days and they'll launch the rescue tomorrow. She's been waiting for days -- weeks -- months -- forever -- and the end is finally near. But only, Janet had ordered, if she rested. If she left the Base. If she went home. If she got at least eight hours of sleep.
Left early, even though she should have stayed.
Came here, to remind herself of what she's going to rescue.
Tomorrow. In one-hundred days.
It's a detail. (Maybe the only one that matters.)
*
Then she dreams, because it's true, it is, she's missed him. Because there's been a void for too long, an absence that her subconscious needs to fill.
of walking through fields, her pack just right on her shoulders, her gun a familiar weight in her hands, one step, two, the colonel on her left, daniel and teal'c on their six, one step, two, twin suns at their backs, warm on her neck, one step, two, wheat brushing against her legs and the steady rush of a western river, one step, two, one step, two
of the commissary, before a mission, or maybe after, jello and cake and david j jeffrey's paper on 'radioactive decay energy deposition in supernovae and the exponential/quasi-exponential behaviour of late-time supernova light curves' and a crossword from national geographic, the scratch of her pen and his
of o'malleys, a late night, too many beers and jokes and memories of a mission that could have, there but for, turned out so much worse, his hand lingering on her shoulder when he gets up to find the head, her fingers sliding against his when she hands him another drink, thoughts of maybe maybe maybe teasing her with possibilities too numerous to chart
And dreams. Of moments, strung together. She wants -- and has done -- for ninety-nine days.
Because she's missed him.
Such a little thing to do. A mere detail.
*
Sometimes, she thinks --
(not her house; not her t-shirt; not her bed)
-- more than he should --
(little things; mere details)
-- he matters.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: She's missed him.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Sam/Jack
SPOILERS: A Hundred Days (3x17)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: Unbeta'd. Sorry.
WORDS: 784
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; September 2010.
* * * * *
Details by anr
* * * * *
Sometimes, she thinks, details matter.
It's not time for her to leave, but she's leaving anyway. Putting aside figures she's reviewed only a dozen different times, closing her laptop. Dumping her coffee mug onto a tray that, when full at the end of the week, will be dutifully returned to the commissary. Brushing her hair from her eyes, stuffing a sheaf of print-outs into her backpack, slapping the light switch to off.
Going home, even though it's not time for her to leave yet.
It's not usual for her to take Mesa, but she's taking it anyway. Turning right off the avenue, left onto Aspen. Watching people she's never seen before live their lives: neighbours dragging garbage cans to the curb in the late twilight, calling in children from pavement games. A life that's not hers running past her window at a steady forty-miles-per-hour.
Driving home, even though it's not the way she usually goes.
It's not right for the mailbox to be overflowing, but that's the way it is. The lawn needs mowing and the front step's covered in newspapers. She's gathering them up and fumbling for her hook pick and torque wrench. Someone should really sweep the footpath, but she'll think about that tomorrow.
Arriving home, even though that's not quite true.
*
Details. The little things. Things that sometimes matter.
This isn't her house, but she's wondering if she's home anyway. If it could be. Keeping the lights off as she leaves the newspapers and mail on the kitchen bench. Dumping her jacket and backpack on an empty sofa, lingering briefly at the flashing message display on the answering machine. She doesn't press the button, preferring the silence.
She's home, but she's not sure why she's calling it that.
This isn't her room, but she's standing there anyway. Staring at a not-quite-closed wardrobe door, leaning against a pine dresser. There's a dark green comforter on the bed; the cotton's soft beneath her fingertips. She sits on the edge of the mattress and unties her boots carefully, one lace at a time.
She's tired, but she doesn't think she can sleep.
This isn't her bathroom, but she's brushing her teeth anyway. Not looking in the mirror, in case she sees herself. Searching out a t-shirt, because she's sick of looking like she's supposed to. Pulling back sheets that smell just a little faded, resting her cheek against a pillow that's not really hers. Breathing deeply, just in case it helps.
She's here, but she shouldn't be.
*
Ninety-nine days and they'll launch the rescue tomorrow. She's been waiting for days -- weeks -- months -- forever -- and the end is finally near. But only, Janet had ordered, if she rested. If she left the Base. If she went home. If she got at least eight hours of sleep.
Left early, even though she should have stayed.
Came here, to remind herself of what she's going to rescue.
Tomorrow. In one-hundred days.
It's a detail. (Maybe the only one that matters.)
*
Then she dreams, because it's true, it is, she's missed him. Because there's been a void for too long, an absence that her subconscious needs to fill.
of walking through fields, her pack just right on her shoulders, her gun a familiar weight in her hands, one step, two, the colonel on her left, daniel and teal'c on their six, one step, two, twin suns at their backs, warm on her neck, one step, two, wheat brushing against her legs and the steady rush of a western river, one step, two, one step, two
of the commissary, before a mission, or maybe after, jello and cake and david j jeffrey's paper on 'radioactive decay energy deposition in supernovae and the exponential/quasi-exponential behaviour of late-time supernova light curves' and a crossword from national geographic, the scratch of her pen and his
of o'malleys, a late night, too many beers and jokes and memories of a mission that could have, there but for, turned out so much worse, his hand lingering on her shoulder when he gets up to find the head, her fingers sliding against his when she hands him another drink, thoughts of maybe maybe maybe teasing her with possibilities too numerous to chart
And dreams. Of moments, strung together. She wants -- and has done -- for ninety-nine days.
Because she's missed him.
Such a little thing to do. A mere detail.
*
Sometimes, she thinks --
(not her house; not her t-shirt; not her bed)
-- more than he should --
(little things; mere details)
-- he matters.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*