Ya Vas Lyubil, by Magistrate (PG)
Rec Category: Sam and Daniel friendship
Pairing: none
Categories: Sam and Daniel friendship, Samantha Carter, Daniel Jackson, gen, humor, angst
Warnings: none
Author on LJ: draegonhawke
Author's Website: FanFiction.net Profile
Link: Ya Vas Lyubil
Why This Must Be Read: When Sam asks Daniel to teach her Russian, he tackles it in perfect Daniel fashion, with a combination of Russian scientific journals (“proton" for proton, "elektron" for electron, "uskoritel zaryazhennuikh chastitz" for particle accelerator) and immersion in Russian culture. There’s the charm of Jack’s annoyance at Sam and Daniel practicing Russian, of all things, and the subsequent snarkiness (complete with reference to 1969!) around the fire. But when Sam’s growing worry turns out to be only too justified, there is also shared pain, and the frustrated grief that they are, perhaps, “too good” at keeping secrets.
I love this fic for its warm insights into Sam and Daniel’s character, the closeness and humor of their friendship, and the comfort Daniel offers in the face of Sam’s helpless misery. Ya Vas Lyubil is written with care and affection, and it will leave you loving Sam and Daniel even more than ever.
A few days later he arranged to treat her to a Russian dinner. He arrived at her house with a copy of Dom Durakov--a movie he'd only seen half of, but remembered enjoying--a bag of groceries, and a bottle of Khortitzya vodka that Colonel Chekhov had given to Jack, which Jack refused on principle to drink. He stashed the vodka in the freezer and went to make dinner.
Three minutes in--he'd chucked a handful of potatoes into a pot on the stove--Sam walked in and demanded to see his recipe, which amounted to scrawled notes on a legal pad. "You have no idea how to cook," she decided, with a certain awe in her voice for someone who'd lived alone as long as he had and still hadn't learned. "Here, let me help."
Of course, cooking was neither's forte, and while Sam was quoting the physics of specific heats and Daniel was quoting folk wisdom and the culinary complaints of Baba Yaga's daughters they managed to boil the potatoes into a dry mush and leave the watermelon cubes out just long enough that the edges turned rubbery. It didn't matter. Dinner was wonderful.
Daniel showed her how to drink in true Russian fashion--a ritual that involved a lot of food-sniffing ("If you're in a bind, you can smell you sleeve instead," he informed her) and table-banging, and over the course of the evening forgot the movie entirely. By the time he checked his watch next it was late.
Daniel excused himself, stood to leave, and paused in the doorway with his keys in his hand. "Um," he said.
Sam blinked at him owlishly. "You're drunk, aren't you?"
"Na ushakh," he confirmed, pinching air to indicate a little. "Maybe I should call taksi."
Sam graced that with an amiable snicker. "Po-russki?"
"English would probably be better."
"Luchye." Sam nodded.
Daniel nodded. "Da."
Sam kept laughing.
Daniel turned around, stuffing his keys back into his pocket. "Shto?"
Sam cleared her throat, feigning gravity. "Maybe you should crash here. At least until you're not mixing up your languages any more."
Daniel stared.
Sam patted the cushion. "Come on. I'll bring you a blanket."