SG-1 Ficlet: Sesquicentennial (Sam/Jack, All Ages)
Serious hard drive archaeology going on over here. Been very interesting in terms of thinking about writing and stuff, and I might natter on about that at some point, but for now - Hey! I found a couple of teeny tiny things from like four years ago that are finished but for some reason I never posted. I vaguely recall this one was written for a prompt, but heck if I remember whose prompt or where at or why I never put it up anywhere. Here you go. :)
Title: Sesquicentennial
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Rating: All Ages
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Jack (UST or friendship, reader's choice I think)
Season/Timeline: Major Carter-era. That's all I've got.
Word Count: ~560
Summary: "Carter, are you sure we’re up high enough? I’m really not in the mood to go swimming today."
Lying on his belly, head hanging over the edge of a rock ledge that really wasn’t wide enough for his peace of mind, Jack regarded the rising water with a fair amount of concern. He looked back over his shoulder. “Carter, are you sure we’re up high enough? I’m really not in the mood to go swimming today.”
The woman in question was sitting against the cliff face, arms wrapped around the knees she’d pulled up against her chest, crowded under a small overhang to escape the rain that still didn’t seem hard enough to have caused this particular disaster. Her hair was plastered to her head, and her hands and face were covered in scratches from their rapid ascent up the rock wall. “Why are you asking me, sir? Daniel’s the one who told us it would be.”
“Have to do something to pass the time, Major, and Daniel’s not here.” Grinning at her obvious irritation, he continued to stare at her, and for several seconds she glared at him in return; then she shivered and tightened her arms around her legs.
Without thought, Jack pushed himself up and sat next to her. He slung an arm about her shoulders companionably. “So I’ve been keeping track.”
He felt rather than heard her tiny sigh of exasperation, but, as expected, she played along. “Keeping track of what?”
“By my count, this is exactly the one-hundred and fiftieth catastrophe we’ve had as SG-1. That’s a sesquicentennial, you know.”
“Actually, to be a sesquicentennial, it would have to involve a period of one-hundred fifty years,” she corrected, her effort half-hearted at best.
He poked her arm. “Don’t spoil my fun, Carter.”
“No, of course not, sir.”
“Anyway, I’ve been waiting for this one. One hundred and fifty seems like a pretty special number. And I have to admit, I was hoping for something a little grander than a flash flood. Something that involved at least some staff weapons, a death glider or two ….”
She snorted softly. “Next rise of Apophis, maybe?”
“Apophis.” He thought for a moment. “Nah. Apophis, that’s clearly been overdone. Hathor. It would have to rate at least Hathor.”
“Hathor? Seriously, sir, Hathor was barely worth being - what number was Hathor in this count of yours?”
“Eighteen,” he answered, inventing wildly. “At least the first time. And I still think that one’s pretty hard to top. You did get to hit Hammond over the head, after all.”
“Thanks for reminding me, sir. Suddenly the flood’s looking much more appealing.”
There was a rock digging uncomfortably into his left hip, he noticed. “I have to admit, though, literally going to hell probably did top the whole girl-power incident.”
She turned her head to look at him, raising her eyebrows, but she let the remark pass. “I thought you said Apophis was overdone,” she said instead.
“Ah, but Apophis was such a small, small part of that whole amazing experience.”
“So you were hoping for a catastrophe that was bigger than going to hell and finding out Apophis rose from the dead?” she asked, now fighting back a smile.
“I see you understand my point. Flash flood? It’s prosaic.” He tapped her shoulder for emphasis.
“I don’t mind prosaic, just this one time,” she said, laughing softly and leaning toward him.
He shifted closer to her, escaping the rock impaling his backside. “It’s a change of pace, anyway.”
Title: Sesquicentennial
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Rating: All Ages
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Jack (UST or friendship, reader's choice I think)
Season/Timeline: Major Carter-era. That's all I've got.
Word Count: ~560
Summary: "Carter, are you sure we’re up high enough? I’m really not in the mood to go swimming today."
Lying on his belly, head hanging over the edge of a rock ledge that really wasn’t wide enough for his peace of mind, Jack regarded the rising water with a fair amount of concern. He looked back over his shoulder. “Carter, are you sure we’re up high enough? I’m really not in the mood to go swimming today.”
The woman in question was sitting against the cliff face, arms wrapped around the knees she’d pulled up against her chest, crowded under a small overhang to escape the rain that still didn’t seem hard enough to have caused this particular disaster. Her hair was plastered to her head, and her hands and face were covered in scratches from their rapid ascent up the rock wall. “Why are you asking me, sir? Daniel’s the one who told us it would be.”
“Have to do something to pass the time, Major, and Daniel’s not here.” Grinning at her obvious irritation, he continued to stare at her, and for several seconds she glared at him in return; then she shivered and tightened her arms around her legs.
Without thought, Jack pushed himself up and sat next to her. He slung an arm about her shoulders companionably. “So I’ve been keeping track.”
He felt rather than heard her tiny sigh of exasperation, but, as expected, she played along. “Keeping track of what?”
“By my count, this is exactly the one-hundred and fiftieth catastrophe we’ve had as SG-1. That’s a sesquicentennial, you know.”
“Actually, to be a sesquicentennial, it would have to involve a period of one-hundred fifty years,” she corrected, her effort half-hearted at best.
He poked her arm. “Don’t spoil my fun, Carter.”
“No, of course not, sir.”
“Anyway, I’ve been waiting for this one. One hundred and fifty seems like a pretty special number. And I have to admit, I was hoping for something a little grander than a flash flood. Something that involved at least some staff weapons, a death glider or two ….”
She snorted softly. “Next rise of Apophis, maybe?”
“Apophis.” He thought for a moment. “Nah. Apophis, that’s clearly been overdone. Hathor. It would have to rate at least Hathor.”
“Hathor? Seriously, sir, Hathor was barely worth being - what number was Hathor in this count of yours?”
“Eighteen,” he answered, inventing wildly. “At least the first time. And I still think that one’s pretty hard to top. You did get to hit Hammond over the head, after all.”
“Thanks for reminding me, sir. Suddenly the flood’s looking much more appealing.”
There was a rock digging uncomfortably into his left hip, he noticed. “I have to admit, though, literally going to hell probably did top the whole girl-power incident.”
She turned her head to look at him, raising her eyebrows, but she let the remark pass. “I thought you said Apophis was overdone,” she said instead.
“Ah, but Apophis was such a small, small part of that whole amazing experience.”
“So you were hoping for a catastrophe that was bigger than going to hell and finding out Apophis rose from the dead?” she asked, now fighting back a smile.
“I see you understand my point. Flash flood? It’s prosaic.” He tapped her shoulder for emphasis.
“I don’t mind prosaic, just this one time,” she said, laughing softly and leaning toward him.
He shifted closer to her, escaping the rock impaling his backside. “It’s a change of pace, anyway.”