Little Yellow Touchstones
Fandom: Stargate: SG-1
Characters: Original flavor team
Title: Little Yellow Touchstones
Author: Maychorian
Category: Gen, team, vignette
Summary: Sometimes words are hard.
Spoilers: Scattered, mostly early seasons, casting for SGA.
Word Count: 697
Disclaimer: Do not own. Do want. :(
Author's Note: Written for Gen Fic Day over at sg_fignewton's LJ: http://sg-fignewton.livejournal.com/69313.html?view=1230529#t1230529. Thrown together on a whim, so I hope you enjoy. (Look, Ma, I'm writing something!)
It might have been Daniel who started the post-it notes, as he seemed to have never-ending supplies tucked away in his desk. Maybe it was Teal'c, fascinated by the sticky pieces of colorful paper, so rare in his culture, so ubiquitous here. Might have been Jack, with his well-hidden sense of whimsy. Or Sam, trying to complete a thought that kept getting cut off in person.
They began business-like, important, appended to official reports. Daniel, using up every scrap of space on the yellow square: "Actually, I think now the correct translation is caruni-ta, not caruni-tan-completely different word, changes the entire sentence! Will write updated report soon." Sam, on a technical drawing, with accompanying sketch: "This circuit will probably work better." Jack, on a requisition form: "Need more sunglasses."
Then one day, on a random piece of paperwork from Jack to Daniel: "Tag, you're it!" That went back and forth for a while. The game acquired rules. Friendly insults were added, and became gradually more creative. They started keeping a tally with two jars of jellybeans on Jack's desk, the levels constantly changing as one got the other (and also because Jack would eat them, and then have to go buy more).
Paperwork became immune, because one ended up on General Hammond's desk and he did his frowny-face-lowered-eyebrows thing at them, so they had to find other ways to tag each other. Office doors. Coffee cups. MREs. Teal'c's backpack. Sam's forehead. That's when the other two were dragged in.
Over missions, through dangers, surmounting injuries and griefs-the post-its persisted, little yellow touchstones in time. Flimsy but resilient. Small but strong. Like the Tau'ri. Like the team.
It was funny, sometimes, that they saw so very much of each other, stepping on each other's shoes on the base and on other worlds, breathing each other's breath when they huddled in darkened ruins or sinking ships, showering in side-by-side stalls, sleeping in side-by-side tents, fighting and eating and living and working all piled on top of each other, and yet sometimes they couldn't say what they wanted to. Even Daniel, the most verbose of them, the most articulate and open, wasn't good at saying what he really wanted to say. Not when it really mattered. A vase of flowers, a pat on the shoulder, a sympathetic look, that's what they used when they really needed something extra. And every once in a while, a post-it note.
After Antarctica: an effusive scrawl-"Welcome back! Missed you!" and in a careful block print-"Indeed."
After Jolinar: "Feel better. We love you." Words tagged to an IV bag, the only ones Sam seemed to hear.
After the Keeper and his games, Sam's flowing cursive: "Daniel, if you ever need want to talk need anything. Whatever. Anything. You know where I am."
After the sarcophagus: "Tag! You're it! (Didn't think I wasn't gonna get you, didja?)" And like that, he knew that it was over, forgiven.
After yet another disaster: "Jack, if you want a little break, you could just ask. No need to get yourself impaled on a stake."
Anytime and anywhere: "O'Neill. It has been too long since we battled."
Just a few words at a time, but they worked. Like Jack's Kleenex box through the wormhole and the note that came back, communicating across vast distances. Or just across the room.
And so there came a time when Sam, in Atlantis, received a care package and opened it to find a little yellow note.
"TAG! YOU'RE IT! JUST TRY TO GET ME BACK!"
She nearly sprained something, laughing so hard. The others stared, but she offered no explanation. You either understood it or you didn't. It was one of those things.
And yeah, she got him back. It looked like a mission report, attached to an email. Now whenever Cam turned on his computer, a yellow block flashed on the screen. For months, he couldn't get anyone to help him remove the virus. They said it was harmless. He frowned and accused them of being in on it.
There was no way he was ever going to be able to send Sam all the jellybeans he owed her.
End
Characters: Original flavor team
Title: Little Yellow Touchstones
Author: Maychorian
Category: Gen, team, vignette
Summary: Sometimes words are hard.
Spoilers: Scattered, mostly early seasons, casting for SGA.
Word Count: 697
Disclaimer: Do not own. Do want. :(
Author's Note: Written for Gen Fic Day over at sg_fignewton's LJ: http://sg-fignewton.livejournal.com/69313.html?view=1230529#t1230529. Thrown together on a whim, so I hope you enjoy. (Look, Ma, I'm writing something!)
It might have been Daniel who started the post-it notes, as he seemed to have never-ending supplies tucked away in his desk. Maybe it was Teal'c, fascinated by the sticky pieces of colorful paper, so rare in his culture, so ubiquitous here. Might have been Jack, with his well-hidden sense of whimsy. Or Sam, trying to complete a thought that kept getting cut off in person.
They began business-like, important, appended to official reports. Daniel, using up every scrap of space on the yellow square: "Actually, I think now the correct translation is caruni-ta, not caruni-tan-completely different word, changes the entire sentence! Will write updated report soon." Sam, on a technical drawing, with accompanying sketch: "This circuit will probably work better." Jack, on a requisition form: "Need more sunglasses."
Then one day, on a random piece of paperwork from Jack to Daniel: "Tag, you're it!" That went back and forth for a while. The game acquired rules. Friendly insults were added, and became gradually more creative. They started keeping a tally with two jars of jellybeans on Jack's desk, the levels constantly changing as one got the other (and also because Jack would eat them, and then have to go buy more).
Paperwork became immune, because one ended up on General Hammond's desk and he did his frowny-face-lowered-eyebrows thing at them, so they had to find other ways to tag each other. Office doors. Coffee cups. MREs. Teal'c's backpack. Sam's forehead. That's when the other two were dragged in.
Over missions, through dangers, surmounting injuries and griefs-the post-its persisted, little yellow touchstones in time. Flimsy but resilient. Small but strong. Like the Tau'ri. Like the team.
It was funny, sometimes, that they saw so very much of each other, stepping on each other's shoes on the base and on other worlds, breathing each other's breath when they huddled in darkened ruins or sinking ships, showering in side-by-side stalls, sleeping in side-by-side tents, fighting and eating and living and working all piled on top of each other, and yet sometimes they couldn't say what they wanted to. Even Daniel, the most verbose of them, the most articulate and open, wasn't good at saying what he really wanted to say. Not when it really mattered. A vase of flowers, a pat on the shoulder, a sympathetic look, that's what they used when they really needed something extra. And every once in a while, a post-it note.
After Antarctica: an effusive scrawl-"Welcome back! Missed you!" and in a careful block print-"Indeed."
After Jolinar: "Feel better. We love you." Words tagged to an IV bag, the only ones Sam seemed to hear.
After the Keeper and his games, Sam's flowing cursive: "Daniel, if you ever need want to talk need anything. Whatever. Anything. You know where I am."
After the sarcophagus: "Tag! You're it! (Didn't think I wasn't gonna get you, didja?)" And like that, he knew that it was over, forgiven.
After yet another disaster: "Jack, if you want a little break, you could just ask. No need to get yourself impaled on a stake."
Anytime and anywhere: "O'Neill. It has been too long since we battled."
Just a few words at a time, but they worked. Like Jack's Kleenex box through the wormhole and the note that came back, communicating across vast distances. Or just across the room.
And so there came a time when Sam, in Atlantis, received a care package and opened it to find a little yellow note.
"TAG! YOU'RE IT! JUST TRY TO GET ME BACK!"
She nearly sprained something, laughing so hard. The others stared, but she offered no explanation. You either understood it or you didn't. It was one of those things.
And yeah, she got him back. It looked like a mission report, attached to an email. Now whenever Cam turned on his computer, a yellow block flashed on the screen. For months, he couldn't get anyone to help him remove the virus. They said it was harmless. He frowned and accused them of being in on it.
There was no way he was ever going to be able to send Sam all the jellybeans he owed her.
End