Something out of nothing
Something out of nothing
by Stef
Summary: "What are you smiling at?"
"Nothin."
Category: Humor, Missing Scene/Epilogue, POV, Romance, Thoughts
Episode Related: 406 Window of Opportunity
Season: any Season
Pairing: Jack/Sam
Rating: G
Warnings: minor language
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s).
Archived on: 10/14/03
Something out of nothing
Have you ever had one of those moments? You're sitting in a car, say...at a set of red traffic lights. And it's raining. The light is hazing red and you've got so much stuff to do, people to see, places to be. You're stuck and you can't move till you get the green light. Oh, and did I mention that it's raining?
So, you're sitting with the rain rolling down the windows, with the sky setting red because of the damn traffic light. You're willing to run the light; in fact, the thought is on the tip of your tongue....
Only you know, you're in a catch 22. The one time you run that light will be the only time you're gonna get stopped by a cop with a stick up his ass and an aversion to women
And, of course, it's still raining. They call that something don't they? Pathetic fallacy? When the weather reflects the mood....
Anyway, this is one of those moments.
Only I'm not in a car, I'm in an infirmary a couple of miles under Cheyenne Mountain where there are no windows for the rain to roll down.
And the red light, that infuriating stop sign, the warning to stop to prevent collision.... Colonel Jack O'Neill retired, reinstated, died a couple of times...You get my drift don't you?
And why am I stuck under the stop sign of the century?
A simple question, that's all.
A simple question that had I known the answer, would never have asked and that will no doubt infuriate me until I die. The simple five word question, those five words. One syllable, one syllable, one syllable, two syllables, and one syllable.
Did I mention my death certificate will read, cause of death: Colonel Jack O'Neill retired, reinstated, died a couple of times...
Anyway, that question...those five words.
"What are you smiling at?"
It's a simple enough statement that protected me from embarrassment. These few would, grouped together in this way with the added bonus of a question mark, surely spare me the hell of wondering why he was smirking at me like a kid who's been caught doing something very, very naughty.
Not that I minded his smirk, of course.
It has to be the most ambiguous, vague, deceptive, unclear and irritating answer since man devised the wheel, the donut and the electric toothbrush.
Reminding me for the fourth time in six months to buy batteries for the latter appliance; but quickly back to the answer.
"Nothin..." More smirking, add nauseum.
What does nothing mean?
You certainly don't smirk at your second in command like that without there being an event to fire the starting pistol.
Nobody, smirks at Major Samantha Carter like that without explaining themselves; especially when the owner of that oh so innocent smile has been living the same six hours over and over and over and over and over for the past three months; oblivious to the said major of course.
Two more five-word questions spring from the ashes of that answer.
What the hell did I do?
What the hell did he do?
Of course, I shouldn't be panicking should I? No, I shouldn't because I don't feel anything for my commanding officer, I'm a good little soldier. I would never have let myself do anything to jeopardise mine or indeed his careers.
Would I? Knowing that in six hours the slate would be wiped clean. That anything I did, after the existent time loops are explained to me for the umpteenth time, would be forgotten by all.
Except for him.
Janet's watching me now, playing the anxious best friend and worrying that I'm not getting enough alcohol at weekends.
And, it's not like I don't have anything really important to do.
It's just sometimes, the only question I find myself asking is a one that would defiantly hold a complex answer that for once I wouldn't be able to understand.
"How many something's are there in a Jack O'Neill nothin?"
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