Disclaimer: I don't own anything Stargate, except for a few dvd's
Music was blastning out through the speakers. John felt like a teenager again as he sat on his bed, letting the tune flow over him. He almost didn't hear the polite knock on the front door, but as he did, he got up with a sigh.
Outside stood a brown-haired woman dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. She smiled apologetically.
"Ah, I'm looking for 54 Palm tree road?"
John ran a hand through his hair. "Sure. That's the house right across the road."
"Thank you." A brief smile, and then she walked away.
That was the first time he'd met her. It did seem ordinary. Unnoticeable. But now, looking back, he of course knew it hadn't been. What wouldn't he have done, to keep from experiencing the things that happened during the following weeks. And still, if he had been able to go back, he wouldn't have changed a thing. He would still have stayed at his door for a minute, to make sure she… found her way.
He screamed again, as pain jolted through his body. Then he clenched his teeth, resolving not to break.
"I will ask you once more, scum. Where is agent Weir?" The man in front of him raised his fist for another blow, but stopped as John raised his head.
"I have no idea who you're talking about," he said.
And the blow came, sending John into unconsciousness.
She'd reached the door of the opposite house. Another knock. What did she have against doorbells? He smiled at this little quirk.
As the door opened, he saw the glistening of a knife. He acted quickly, without thinking. In a few seconds, he had crossed the street and was at her side.
"Do we have a problem here?" he asked.
"We don't have a problem," she answered, and as John met the gaze of the man in the doorway, he saw fear. What was the man afraid of? Being discovered? John glanced quickly at the woman. Not her, was it?
"Look, I'm sure we can all just solve this as friends. Put the knife down." The last bit being directed at the man, who was now squeezing the handle of his knife with a lightly frantic look on his face. His eyes locked with John's for a few moments and then he made an attempt at a careless shrug.
"You can never be careful enough these days, eh?" he said, lowering the knife a few inches.
"Right," John agreed.
The woman took a step forward, clearly ushering the man into the house. "Thanks for your concern, but I've got it from here," she said over her shoulder.
Later that night, John awoke from a shallow sleep at the sound of someone going through his kitchen. He rose from his bed, padding out onto the landing. He stood at the top of the stairs for a few moments, trying to decide what to do. Probably it was a burglar, and he'd had his dose of excitement for today.
Returning to his room, John picked up his cell phone from the nightstand. He dialled 911, and as a voice sparked into existence on the other end, he cleared his throat and spoke.
"I think I've got a burglar on my hands. Yeah. 53 Palm tree road. Thanks. Bye."
When he heard a crash, John decided to go down there anyway. He put down the phone and once again ventured out into the hallway. Carefully avoiding the squeaky steps in the staircase, he made his way down and into the kitchen. He turned on the light and - stopped.
"How can I help you?"
She looked up from the kitchen drawer she was going through and blew a strand of her brown hair out of her eyes.
"You don't happen to have a screwdriver?"
He went over to another drawer, casually asking "So, how did you manage before?"
"Oh." She seemed surprised, but then a playful smile came into her face. "It takes a little bit more than a knife to overpower me." She pointedly followed his gaze to the knife rack on the kitchen counter.
"Oh," he said, crossing the floor and handing her the screwdriver. "Do you mind me asking what you want with that?"
"I'm dismantling a bomb," the answer came, casually, with that same smile. And then she had gone out the door.
A few moments later, the police came storming in. Their guns and flashlights seemed strangely uncalled for in the warm kitchen lighting.
"False alarm," John told the officer who came up to question him. "I suppose I must've heard the tap dripping or something."
"That's odd," the officer commented. "You don't seem like the worrying type."
"I think I saw a woman going out of here when we came down the street," one of the others chimed in.
"A woman? I've got no idea what you're talking about," John answered, uttering those words for the first out of many times.
