Disclaimer: Not mine, really. Well, Marya is. Sam and Jack belong to... SciFi, Peter deLuise, Brad Wright, etc., etc.
Rating: I give this one a stiff PG13. She was really foul-mouthed.
Set: early season 8, probably.
Notes: utterly pointless, but still amusing.
Why It Has To Be Me by Suzy DeZorga
Another one of those days. Another one of those god-damned-fucking DAYS.
Some day, I would have a therapist, and many world governments would pay that bill.
But for now, I was stuck in the middle of something that would make a lesser woman's hair turn grey. Or pink. Or... well, mine started out a rainbow, so I suppose a few more strands of silver wouldn't bother me.
Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter was dancing around something in her head. Or it was all in mine. At this point, I just did not fucking care. "Look, Colonel, honey--"
"I don't know who you are--"
My hand waved in the air and I interupted her. "Don't matter, darlin'. I'm here. You're stuck, for the moment. And so you have to listen to me."
God. Who the hell was writing my dialogue?
Not me, certainly. I pushed at the boundaries of the magic sliding around us, and it bit slightly. I growled. The sound echoed strangely in the cavern.
"The hell are we, anyway, Carter?"
A new voice, and I turned to find an older man staring at the woman. A name slammed into my conscious. Brigadier General Jack O'Neill. He didn't seem to notice me. Experimentally, I waved a hand in front of his face. Nothin'. Damn.
Nothing around me, either. I couldn't get out of whatever it was that held me, and I had no clue where the hell it was anyway, and I was definitely NOT happy. This was so the last time I said yes to any powers that be types.
"I don't know, sir."
Sir. Right. The guy. And the girl. I focused on the two of them again, and frowned at the lines of connection that radtiated outwards from them both. About a third of the connections were, well, connected. A third were twisted up. And the other third were waving, as if struggling to find a way.
I hate metaphors.
Someone was paying my therapy bills.
"Hey. Colonel." I waved a hand at the blonde.
She blinked at me. Again.
"Look, I'll make it short and sweet." Something longer was hovering on the edge of my brain, but I was SO not saying hearts and flowers shit. "You want to fuck him, he wants to fuck you. Get the fuck over yourself and do so."
Hey, almost poetic, if I did say so myself.
She was blushing. "I--"
And just like that, they were gone.
Hey. I might actually begin to like this gig. From omniversal whore to cupid.... Nah. Now where the hell was my damned sword?
-finis-
Rating: I give this one a stiff PG13. She was really foul-mouthed.
Set: early season 8, probably.
Notes: utterly pointless, but still amusing.
Why It Has To Be Me by Suzy DeZorga
Another one of those days. Another one of those god-damned-fucking DAYS.
Some day, I would have a therapist, and many world governments would pay that bill.
But for now, I was stuck in the middle of something that would make a lesser woman's hair turn grey. Or pink. Or... well, mine started out a rainbow, so I suppose a few more strands of silver wouldn't bother me.
Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter was dancing around something in her head. Or it was all in mine. At this point, I just did not fucking care. "Look, Colonel, honey--"
"I don't know who you are--"
My hand waved in the air and I interupted her. "Don't matter, darlin'. I'm here. You're stuck, for the moment. And so you have to listen to me."
God. Who the hell was writing my dialogue?
Not me, certainly. I pushed at the boundaries of the magic sliding around us, and it bit slightly. I growled. The sound echoed strangely in the cavern.
"The hell are we, anyway, Carter?"
A new voice, and I turned to find an older man staring at the woman. A name slammed into my conscious. Brigadier General Jack O'Neill. He didn't seem to notice me. Experimentally, I waved a hand in front of his face. Nothin'. Damn.
Nothing around me, either. I couldn't get out of whatever it was that held me, and I had no clue where the hell it was anyway, and I was definitely NOT happy. This was so the last time I said yes to any powers that be types.
"I don't know, sir."
Sir. Right. The guy. And the girl. I focused on the two of them again, and frowned at the lines of connection that radtiated outwards from them both. About a third of the connections were, well, connected. A third were twisted up. And the other third were waving, as if struggling to find a way.
I hate metaphors.
Someone was paying my therapy bills.
"Hey. Colonel." I waved a hand at the blonde.
She blinked at me. Again.
"Look, I'll make it short and sweet." Something longer was hovering on the edge of my brain, but I was SO not saying hearts and flowers shit. "You want to fuck him, he wants to fuck you. Get the fuck over yourself and do so."
Hey, almost poetic, if I did say so myself.
She was blushing. "I--"
And just like that, they were gone.
Hey. I might actually begin to like this gig. From omniversal whore to cupid.... Nah. Now where the hell was my damned sword?
-finis-