"What?" He should bust her for that. It should be 'what sir?' and
definitely not in that tone. But he won't.
"Nuttin'." He replies. She knows he won't.
They have an unspoken agreement. She doesn't 'sir' him left, right and centre. He doesn't expect her to. She doesn't ask why he visits her lab so frequently. He offers no explanation. He just comes to her – at any hour, any day – and observes. Sometimes he's silent, just taking comfort in knowing she's nearby. Sometimes he's full of pent up energy – usually when he's be in his office for any stretch of time. She never knows how he'll act, and she prefers it that way. Her lab work, though she'd never admit it, can be tedious. Even if his presence is annoying, she likes the unpredictable company.
She continues with her work, her posture slowly relaxing as his presence is forgotten. That's how he likes it. She's herself in here, in her lab. She's the person he cares about (a lot more than he's supposed to.) She doesn't guard her feelings, her posture. She's herself, pure and simple (though there's nothing simple about the calculation's she's writing. His head started spinning after the first line.) He could watch her all day, though he'd never admit it and still be left wanting to watch more. She yawns and stretches. He fights the urge to stare at the few inches of skin that appeared as her shirt rose slightly.
He takes a seat. She put it there for him. "It's your chair." She had laughed, putting the tall stool to one side of her lab, furthest away from anything breakable. He likes his chair. He watches her run a hand through her hair, leaving spiky turrets in her wake. She's stuck on a problem, he realises. He watches her enough to recognise some of her gestures. But his attention wonders, a dull blue object on one shelf begs his attention. His hand itches to grab it. She hasn't noticed his attention had wondered. He decides to risk it. It looks expensive, he notes, reaching out to grab it.
"Leave it." She says, her back to him.
Apparently she wasn't as oblivious as he thought.
He smiles slightly. "Leave what?" He teases slightly.
"The paperweight." She replies. To an observer, she would sound impatient. He knows she does not mind answering. Her tone suggests she's smiling. He knows she is anyway. He can see it in his mind's eye, her cheeks dimpling slightly and her eyes sparkling with laughter. He likes her smile.
"Paperweight?" He replies, genuinely surprised. He urges to grab the object, turn it round in his palm, try and work out what's special about it. As far as he knows, nothing in her lab is purposeless. He suspects the paperweight is actually some sort of Goa'uld weaponry. He doesn't say anything though, merely stares at the object.
"Yup." Her answer is short and clipped, but he knows it is not through anger. She's getting closer to the solution, and so she isn't concentrating on him. Her eyes haven't left the notepad she's scrawling over.
He's not one to complain though. The view's nice from where he's sitting.
He'd still like to see her face though.
They fall back into a comfortable silence. She works methodically, hand moving across the paper as she notes down her thoughts. He can see a pattern form. Her hand picks up speed, her thoughts becoming quicker and more excited, only to slow down or stop as another problem baffles her. But it does not slow her for long, her thoughts quickly building speed again. He can picture her face, her brow crinkled in confusion and her teeth unconsciously chewing her lower lip.
He can tell when she's nervous if she chews her lip.
Not that he'd ever tell her.
He should probably leave, he thinks, but his feet refuse to move. His mouth opens without permission and speaks. "You've been at that for a while." He says. "When was the last time you ate?"
She finally turns round, laughter in her eyes. "I had breakfast." She says thoughtfully.
He fights the urge to roll his eyes and enquire if she's found a life yet. Instead he says, "It's almost 5 now. That's dinner." He pauses. "I'm just going to get something to eat myself. Wanna come with?" He asks.
She seems to dither between her work and her stomach. And then her stomach gives a loud rumble. It seems to jolt her into decision. "Sure." She smiles, and grabs her jacket. Shrugging it on, she leaves her lab with him, talking animatedly about her project.
* * *
She sits alone in her lab. She knows he won't come to visit, won't come to drag her from her work with inane comments. She can still see his face, frozen for time inside a machine that cannot fix. No one asks her to go to lunch; no one asks her what's she doing. So she works, her mind set on a puzzle she cannot solve – how to free a man, only to send him to his death.
"Nuttin'." He replies. She knows he won't.
They have an unspoken agreement. She doesn't 'sir' him left, right and centre. He doesn't expect her to. She doesn't ask why he visits her lab so frequently. He offers no explanation. He just comes to her – at any hour, any day – and observes. Sometimes he's silent, just taking comfort in knowing she's nearby. Sometimes he's full of pent up energy – usually when he's be in his office for any stretch of time. She never knows how he'll act, and she prefers it that way. Her lab work, though she'd never admit it, can be tedious. Even if his presence is annoying, she likes the unpredictable company.
She continues with her work, her posture slowly relaxing as his presence is forgotten. That's how he likes it. She's herself in here, in her lab. She's the person he cares about (a lot more than he's supposed to.) She doesn't guard her feelings, her posture. She's herself, pure and simple (though there's nothing simple about the calculation's she's writing. His head started spinning after the first line.) He could watch her all day, though he'd never admit it and still be left wanting to watch more. She yawns and stretches. He fights the urge to stare at the few inches of skin that appeared as her shirt rose slightly.
He takes a seat. She put it there for him. "It's your chair." She had laughed, putting the tall stool to one side of her lab, furthest away from anything breakable. He likes his chair. He watches her run a hand through her hair, leaving spiky turrets in her wake. She's stuck on a problem, he realises. He watches her enough to recognise some of her gestures. But his attention wonders, a dull blue object on one shelf begs his attention. His hand itches to grab it. She hasn't noticed his attention had wondered. He decides to risk it. It looks expensive, he notes, reaching out to grab it.
"Leave it." She says, her back to him.
Apparently she wasn't as oblivious as he thought.
He smiles slightly. "Leave what?" He teases slightly.
"The paperweight." She replies. To an observer, she would sound impatient. He knows she does not mind answering. Her tone suggests she's smiling. He knows she is anyway. He can see it in his mind's eye, her cheeks dimpling slightly and her eyes sparkling with laughter. He likes her smile.
"Paperweight?" He replies, genuinely surprised. He urges to grab the object, turn it round in his palm, try and work out what's special about it. As far as he knows, nothing in her lab is purposeless. He suspects the paperweight is actually some sort of Goa'uld weaponry. He doesn't say anything though, merely stares at the object.
"Yup." Her answer is short and clipped, but he knows it is not through anger. She's getting closer to the solution, and so she isn't concentrating on him. Her eyes haven't left the notepad she's scrawling over.
He's not one to complain though. The view's nice from where he's sitting.
He'd still like to see her face though.
They fall back into a comfortable silence. She works methodically, hand moving across the paper as she notes down her thoughts. He can see a pattern form. Her hand picks up speed, her thoughts becoming quicker and more excited, only to slow down or stop as another problem baffles her. But it does not slow her for long, her thoughts quickly building speed again. He can picture her face, her brow crinkled in confusion and her teeth unconsciously chewing her lower lip.
He can tell when she's nervous if she chews her lip.
Not that he'd ever tell her.
He should probably leave, he thinks, but his feet refuse to move. His mouth opens without permission and speaks. "You've been at that for a while." He says. "When was the last time you ate?"
She finally turns round, laughter in her eyes. "I had breakfast." She says thoughtfully.
He fights the urge to roll his eyes and enquire if she's found a life yet. Instead he says, "It's almost 5 now. That's dinner." He pauses. "I'm just going to get something to eat myself. Wanna come with?" He asks.
She seems to dither between her work and her stomach. And then her stomach gives a loud rumble. It seems to jolt her into decision. "Sure." She smiles, and grabs her jacket. Shrugging it on, she leaves her lab with him, talking animatedly about her project.
* * *
She sits alone in her lab. She knows he won't come to visit, won't come to drag her from her work with inane comments. She can still see his face, frozen for time inside a machine that cannot fix. No one asks her to go to lunch; no one asks her what's she doing. So she works, her mind set on a puzzle she cannot solve – how to free a man, only to send him to his death.