SGA ficlet: Snow
I found this while going through old notebooks last night. I think I was trying to write something for a flashfic challenge. Nothing impressive, just a moment in time set during first season.
John isn't sure what woke him. He keeps still, eyes moving as he tries to see through the dark. The only sounds he can make out are sleep-slow breathing and a soft rustle as Teyla shifts in her bed. He sits up, blinking until he can make out shapes. Teyla is only a blanket-covered lump. Ford is flat on his back, blending into the shadow at the far wall of the hut.
Rodney isn't in bed.
John frowns, then sets about pulling on his boots and coat as quietly as possible. Then he ducks through the hide flap that serves as a door, making sure it closes with a good seal.
Rodney's two feet away, staring up at the purple-black sky. It's deep night, the dark deadness before the burgeoning tension of pre-dawn. Yet a glow comes from somewhere, campfires refracted and reflected millions of times by the crystals of falling snow. The flakes pour down fast as rain, but they're tiny, soft like feather dust. In the stillness, their descent makes a shh shh shh that's loud enough to fill his ears.
"Sometimes I forget," Rodney says, voice pitched low to match the quiet. He's smiling, smiling a small quirky smile at John, and his cheeks are red and his nose shiny. "Actually, I don't think about it very often at all. Just looking, I mean."
John nods. He tries to bring to mind a snowfall like this, back in the States or in Antarctica, but he can't remember ever looking. Which is crazy, because he knows he has. But not for a long time.
He turns his head up to feel the flakes, letting them catch in his eyelashes and burn on his cheeks. The night is a blanket of silence and snow, almost warm as it surrounds them. They stand together, simply being, until Rodney shivers.
"Let's go," John says. "Teyla will be up soon to make tea."
Rodney nods. He dusts the snow from his shoulders, stomps his boots at the entrance, and then peels the hide back from the opening. John pauses behind him, looking up at the sky one last time. He sticks his tongue out, catching a few flakes, and then ducks back inside.
He wonders if they can find some sleds in the morning.
John isn't sure what woke him. He keeps still, eyes moving as he tries to see through the dark. The only sounds he can make out are sleep-slow breathing and a soft rustle as Teyla shifts in her bed. He sits up, blinking until he can make out shapes. Teyla is only a blanket-covered lump. Ford is flat on his back, blending into the shadow at the far wall of the hut.
Rodney isn't in bed.
John frowns, then sets about pulling on his boots and coat as quietly as possible. Then he ducks through the hide flap that serves as a door, making sure it closes with a good seal.
Rodney's two feet away, staring up at the purple-black sky. It's deep night, the dark deadness before the burgeoning tension of pre-dawn. Yet a glow comes from somewhere, campfires refracted and reflected millions of times by the crystals of falling snow. The flakes pour down fast as rain, but they're tiny, soft like feather dust. In the stillness, their descent makes a shh shh shh that's loud enough to fill his ears.
"Sometimes I forget," Rodney says, voice pitched low to match the quiet. He's smiling, smiling a small quirky smile at John, and his cheeks are red and his nose shiny. "Actually, I don't think about it very often at all. Just looking, I mean."
John nods. He tries to bring to mind a snowfall like this, back in the States or in Antarctica, but he can't remember ever looking. Which is crazy, because he knows he has. But not for a long time.
He turns his head up to feel the flakes, letting them catch in his eyelashes and burn on his cheeks. The night is a blanket of silence and snow, almost warm as it surrounds them. They stand together, simply being, until Rodney shivers.
"Let's go," John says. "Teyla will be up soon to make tea."
Rodney nods. He dusts the snow from his shoulders, stomps his boots at the entrance, and then peels the hide back from the opening. John pauses behind him, looking up at the sky one last time. He sticks his tongue out, catching a few flakes, and then ducks back inside.
He wonders if they can find some sleds in the morning.