Gen Sam ficlets for abyssinia4077
Happy birthday abyssinia4077! You are made of so much awesome I don't have the words to even begin. *SMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCH*
sg-fignewton masterminded and organized a birthday ficlet conspiracy for Abyssis: Defining Sam from A to Z, 26 ficlets for each letter of the alphabet, a group effort love letter to Sam and Abyssis. Go check them out (there's fantastic Sam goodness there by a bunch of great writers), and wish Abyssis a happy birthday!
S is for Space (spoilers for Flesh and Blood)
After three hours, Sam breaks from calling out to any of the fleet that might have survived the battle. All she can hear now is the harsh rasp of her precious breaths; she keeps the Supergate in her peripheral vision so she doesn't get disoriented and panic. Fear is there, twined around her heart, slowly starting to squeeze, but beyond the rim of the gate and the wreckage of the Korolev she can see the stars.
When she was small she used to dream of this, of spinning free through the galaxy. The universe was somehow both smaller and larger in her childhood fancies than she knows it now to be, but it fills her with the same terrible, overwhelming, joyous awe as it did when she was seven years old, sitting in a darkened planetarium as a sonorous voice took her out of the gravity well of Earth, out beyond the solar system, the rim of the galaxy, to the very edge of human knowledge and into places that made her tremble to even believe in their possibility.
She closes her eyes; that first glimpse of the curve of Earth through a glider's canopy is ever bright and beautiful in her mind's eye, even all these years later. Her dream, her sanctification, realized in ways she never imagined even in the limitless confines of that dark room. If it ends now, Sam thinks, if this is the last thing she sees, she's glad it will be the stars.
V is for Velocity
Sam takes the Indian up the mountain to work on the first day of spring. It's a ritual she's managed to keep for three years running, almost an eternity given the vagaries of interstellar travel and the occasional temporal displacement that dictate her schedule.
The air is crisp and clear; far ahead, she catches the red flash of brake lights. She slows so that she doesn't come up on the driver at an unseemly rate, but the lights still quickly resolve into the familiar back end of a green Ford F-250 meandering its way up NORAD Road. It amuses her that, for all his maverick, devil-may-care ways, Colonel O'Neill always drives exactly the speed limit.
Or slower. He's reducing speed: Fifty, now down to forty-five. The merry wave of a hand out his window confirms that he's realized it's her and he's doing it on purpose. The jerk.
When she has to slow to thirty to avoid tailgating him, Sam mutters under her breath, "Oh no you don't, Colonel Smartass."
It's irresponsible. It's childish. It's perfect.
She flips on her indicator, waiting ten seconds to makes sure he's seen the signal. And with a last glance up the road to make sure she's clear, and a merry wave of her own, she pulls out into the left lane and opens up the throttle.
The speedometer ticks up to 102 before she eases off, settling for a relatively sedate 75. There's no sign of the Colonel's truck behind her, and the rush of displaced air steals her laughter as she leans into a curve of the road.
sg-fignewton masterminded and organized a birthday ficlet conspiracy for Abyssis: Defining Sam from A to Z, 26 ficlets for each letter of the alphabet, a group effort love letter to Sam and Abyssis. Go check them out (there's fantastic Sam goodness there by a bunch of great writers), and wish Abyssis a happy birthday!
S is for Space (spoilers for Flesh and Blood)
After three hours, Sam breaks from calling out to any of the fleet that might have survived the battle. All she can hear now is the harsh rasp of her precious breaths; she keeps the Supergate in her peripheral vision so she doesn't get disoriented and panic. Fear is there, twined around her heart, slowly starting to squeeze, but beyond the rim of the gate and the wreckage of the Korolev she can see the stars.
When she was small she used to dream of this, of spinning free through the galaxy. The universe was somehow both smaller and larger in her childhood fancies than she knows it now to be, but it fills her with the same terrible, overwhelming, joyous awe as it did when she was seven years old, sitting in a darkened planetarium as a sonorous voice took her out of the gravity well of Earth, out beyond the solar system, the rim of the galaxy, to the very edge of human knowledge and into places that made her tremble to even believe in their possibility.
She closes her eyes; that first glimpse of the curve of Earth through a glider's canopy is ever bright and beautiful in her mind's eye, even all these years later. Her dream, her sanctification, realized in ways she never imagined even in the limitless confines of that dark room. If it ends now, Sam thinks, if this is the last thing she sees, she's glad it will be the stars.
V is for Velocity
Sam takes the Indian up the mountain to work on the first day of spring. It's a ritual she's managed to keep for three years running, almost an eternity given the vagaries of interstellar travel and the occasional temporal displacement that dictate her schedule.
The air is crisp and clear; far ahead, she catches the red flash of brake lights. She slows so that she doesn't come up on the driver at an unseemly rate, but the lights still quickly resolve into the familiar back end of a green Ford F-250 meandering its way up NORAD Road. It amuses her that, for all his maverick, devil-may-care ways, Colonel O'Neill always drives exactly the speed limit.
Or slower. He's reducing speed: Fifty, now down to forty-five. The merry wave of a hand out his window confirms that he's realized it's her and he's doing it on purpose. The jerk.
When she has to slow to thirty to avoid tailgating him, Sam mutters under her breath, "Oh no you don't, Colonel Smartass."
It's irresponsible. It's childish. It's perfect.
She flips on her indicator, waiting ten seconds to makes sure he's seen the signal. And with a last glance up the road to make sure she's clear, and a merry wave of her own, she pulls out into the left lane and opens up the throttle.
The speedometer ticks up to 102 before she eases off, settling for a relatively sedate 75. There's no sign of the Colonel's truck behind her, and the rush of displaced air steals her laughter as she leans into a curve of the road.