Memento More-y
Chapter 1
My Treat
It's the thunk that brings him back, the solid smack of her head, rolling off where she's rested it against her hand, then slamming down onto the desk. She bolts upright immediately, pounding her palms into their shared table, while her eyes dart around the room.
He sends her a glare from over the rim of his glasses because now he's lost his spot on page 856 of the Ancient text and at this point he might as well read through the whole page again because he didn't really retain any of the information on the first three passes.
They've been working on translating some texts that SG-15 brought back from off-world three days ago that might have the location of a weapon usable against the Ori. He's been rushing it, overworking and overtaxing both of them.
Every minute they don't have a solution against the Ori, is a minute they get closer to a full-scale invasion.
He has dreams—no, not dreams, nightmares—where the Ori fire down on Earth and the mountain shakes beneath his feet, lighting goes out, and the plaster and wires and rebar used to construct the base pour out of the walls, the ceiling.
Outside cities burn, monuments fall.
Those are just the basis of his nightmares, the guilt of knowing if he tried harder, he could stop the invasion, that together he and Sam could create something to destroy the Ori, defeat the Doci, slow down the Priors, and stop Adria.
In response to his glare, she shrugs with an almost believable innocence and rolls her lips back into a tight grin. She's not wearing the pigtails today, she didn't yesterday either and he realizes it's because they've been cooped up in his lab for almost twenty-four hours. They've gotten working together down to a science where when he leaves to relieve himself, he'll bring back coffee and snacks, and when she leaves, she'll bring back a bigger meal that she can charm the cafeteria workers into giving her.
He can't be upset because she's been giving this as much work as him. Sees proof of it in the red-lined lids of her eyes, or the way her tired tears loll down her face when she yawns and reaches her arms up to stretch her back until the familiar pop breaks the silence in the room.
Knows she's just as tired as him because she's stopped talking. First just her constant blathering, but then to him at all. A few hours ago, when she said his name in that falsetto pitched whine of irritation she gets, the one that grates on the inside of his ears and usually means he's up to bat away her asinine ideas or her requests for credit cards, or a radio, or a blanket.
Then he realizes that she hasn't said a single word to him since they last ate, which was breakfast, over a few hours ago. She doesn't speak to him now either, just rolls her shoulders back, the left one clicking, and she does it again, the left one still clicking, then collects herself into a huddle against her text, written in a dialect of Goa'uld Qetesh was "overly" fluent in. White hands reappear from the mouth of the sleeves they crawled up into sometime after breakfast, and she wraps the BDU jacket around her body tighter, bringing her knees up and still somehow balancing on the stool.
She must be uncomfortable. He's uncomfortable. He can't feel his ass anymore and he's stopped trying.
They're not going to be good to anyone like this, if SG-1 goes out on a mission, they're not going to be alert or aware, and people he cares about could get hurt.
She could get—
Dropping a bookmark into the centerfold of the text, he slams the cover and 856 pages he's been reading for the last twenty-four hours closed and she flinches again, the stool wobbling underneath her perfect but jolted balance.
"Let's go get dinner."
She blinks at him once. Then again, squinting her eyes a bit through the dryness. "Would you like me to go grab something from the commissary while you tidy—"
"No. No." Stands, shoving his stool back beneath the table, then slots away the text in a nearby bookcase they use for frequently read materials, his pulled from Asgardian, Goa'uld, and other Ancient texts, and hers a mixture of Cosmos and Mad Magazines Mitchell gave her that he gets the pleasure of explaining the jokes of.
With a small flourish of his hands, he suggests, "let's go out for dinner."
"Out for dinner?" She mulls the words over, like a piece of medium rare steak, staring at the table leg before shooting her eyes back to him.
He thought she'd be over the moon to get out, to get different food, and the narcissist in him wants to add, to be with him. "Is there a problem?"
"I'm not allowed off base."
"I'll sign you out."
"Also, I have no form of Earth currency."
"My treat."
Her eyes narrow with suspicion as she examines him once again, her legs extending, boots tapping down on the dull floor. "Daniel, if you'd like to ask me on a date—"
"This is not a date." Holds up his hands as his negotiation tactics fail and he takes a gulping step backwards lest she revert to her old handsy self. "This is a thank you for working so hard."
"Oh." The expression is curt, but she nods at his words, then her eyes spark up. "Can it at least be at a nice restaurant?"
The hope he witnesses etched into her face beneath the lines of sleeplessness, the same worry they share tucked away in this minuscule workspace cause him to agree, and he can't be upset. "Sure."
He can't be upset, because in the nightmare he had the last time he slept, the Ori came, and they took her.
A/N: As always if you have a certain episode you'd like expanded upon please feel free to comment or PM me and I'll add it to the list.
