She could
She could
by Trendicide
TITLE: She could
AUTHOR: Trendicide
EMAIL: trendicide@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: Romance D/S vignette
SPOILERS: none
SEASON / SEQUEL: none
RATING: PG
CONTENT WARNINGS: none
SUMMARY: Daniel thoughts (but fuzzy ones)
STATUS: Completed
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. We 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 authors. Not to be archived without permission of the authors.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: thank-you scorch, my soft toy dragon for the muse you provide
I sneak through the front door at three a.m. Not strictly speaking my fault, how was I supposed to know the translation would take that long? And I did tell her I would finish before I left. Of course it would have gone slightly faster if I hadn't been joined halfway through by one Colonel Jack O'Neill, who obviously had nothing better to do with his time than bounce off the walls of my office, touching things he really shouldn't and babbling incessantly about sports and gossip. I love the man, I really do but watching him gesture wildly about the latest idiotic (in his eyes) hockey decision with a piece of Aztec pottery in his hands was giving me palpitations. Unsurprisingly that slowed me down just a little and I only actually managed to escape when in pointed out that if I stayed much longer Sam may just have time to change the locks. He gave me a look that said 'she couldn't do that' I returned it with an unspoken 'she could.' After all I have a feeling I did promise her I'd leave at midnight. That is if promising can be counted as her saying 'Promise me you'll leave at midnight' when I'm in the middle of a particularly difficult passage and me replying with a vague 'uh-huh'. Still if I'm really late I'll blame Jack, I'm sure he won't mind.
I put my keys down gently on the hall table and tiptoe into the kitchen on the counter I spot a half-empty pizza box with a note taped to the top, she obviously has my welfare in mind. 'Eat me.' The note says 'you don't need a Ph.D. to operate the microwave.' Underneath it in smaller writing it reads '(but it'll help)' Smiling I pop a few slices into the appliance, switching the timer to three minutes and wander absent-mindedly from the kitchen to the living room.
There she is. I can see the top of her head from behind the sofa and as I round the corner I see her curled up in a blanket. I would wonder if she was asleep, except some useless infomercial is playing on the muted TV and I know her better than to presume she'd actually be watching it. Her breathing is slow and rhythmic and I can see the soft rise and fall of her chest even though she is curled almost foetal, hands wrapped round the blanket, fingers wrapped around it as if she'd never let go. For a minute I am mesmerised. Watching her sleep is one of the joys in my life. The brilliant intellect that she exhibits all day is finally still and everything about her exudes and aura of serenity, a call more powerful than any siren song. Stepping over her book which has fallen from the sofa to the rug, I brush a few stray stands of blond hair from her forehead, marvelling again my need to be near her, the feeling I get even from the lightest of touches. She shifts slightly, sighing against my hand as the ghost of a smile plays across her features, aware of me even in her sleep. That idea itself gives me a warm feeling as I creep softly away, smiling back at her form.
I step into the bathroom, removing my glasses and splashing a little cold water onto my face, until this moment I hadn't realised how tired I was. The pizza in the microwave pinged some time back but it can wait for the morning, it'll be just as nice cold. Now all I want is to curl up around her in bed and let us both rest until we have to deal with whatever tomorrow throws up. I grope blindly for the toothpaste, still without my glasses and feel a box drop from the back of the cabinet landing on my foot. I pick it up, slipping my glasses back on. Staring at it blankly for a moment, it strikes me as slightly ironic that a man who can speak 23 languages found it so hard the grasp the meaning of these three little words, 'Home pregnancy test.' I look at the box, then step backwards to look through the open bathroom door into the living room. The soft blond head hasn't moved, she still sleeps soundly curled up as small as she could become. Could she? I quickly finish brushing me teeth and wash my mouth out. Drying my hands I pick up the box again and a slow smile spreads across my face, the simple notion that it could be true sending a warm feeling through me.
I pick her up on the way to bed. She protests sleepily for a second about the loss of the blanket, then her hands find my T-shirt a suitable substitute and she settles back to sleep again. I climb into be next to her, wrapping myself around her as she unconsciously nestles back into me, sighing softly as she finds comfort in my presence. Drowsy now, despite the revelations, I slip my arms around her, switching off the light with one hand then settling it around her abdomen. I smile again in the darkness. She could.
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