Summary: episode addition for Evolution 2
Warnings: language
Spoilers: Evolution 2
Category: Fluff.
Fluff is a category, right?
Season:
7
Author's
Notes: This one is sort of a new style
for me to play with. Also, if you
haven't seen Evolution 2, you're going to be very, very lost in several places. Huge thanks are sent to my betas: Aud, Allie O' N, LadyE of SG1Badfic, and Anna.
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Sundaes, Mini-burgers,
and Shrimp Lo Mein
By Lyta
Rated PG
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You
try not to roll your eyes, and wind up glaring as a result. "Janet, I'll be fine."
And
damn the Colonel for inviting you, anyway.
Nothing ever works out between him and you, no matter how small, and it
never will.
She
is the smooth, cool professional, not the worried friend, so you know it's
nothing serious; she's just being on the infuriatingly safe side. "Yes, you will be, and part of the
reason why you'll be fine is because you're spending 24 hours in the infirmary
while we monitor that concussion."
There's
no concussion anymore. She is such a paranoid *bitch* about alien technology. "Janet..."
"No." Her eyes brush yours, irritated and a bit
uncertain, as she hangs the clipboard at the bottom of the bed. Her jaw muscles tighten, and she stalks into
the glass-walled office.
You
glare at the security camera in the far corner; it, at least, will glare
back. It's childish to sulk like this,
but right now you don't care. You try
not to worry about your dad, who has a serious thing for shrimp lo mein, just like the stuff
that's been mildewing in the back of your fridge for days. Surely he isn't eating it; the stuff has to
be visibly toxic by now, doesn't it?
Oh,
gross. You don't know why you own a
goddamned refrigerator anyway; all it does is collect milk to sour and leftover
takeout (surely Selmak will tell him to stop when the first toxic spoonful hits
his stomach), all of which is crap that molds and turns into bacterial mush so
your garbage really reeks. Your
neighbors, who all are or were picket fence and wedding ring and 2.5 kids-types,
probably despise your garbage and the rank odor that sporadically wafts from
it.
Streaks
of dull pain are radiating along your shoulder and unfurling along your
neck.
Who
cares about food, anyway?
"Lunch?"
he'd asked, and then disappeared over an hour ago when Janet rolled one eye his direction. Coward.
Your
stomach is groaning, but you aren't really hungry, you tell yourself.
The
unblinking glass lens in the corner is a dreary opponent, so now you glare at
the ceiling tiles, which you know from previous stays have an average of 431
irregularly-sized little holes in each.
The tiny holes in the acoustic squares are too small for any human to
squeeze through, but you can always wish.
You could crawl through the suspended ceiling (damn good thing none of
the aliens in any of the foothold incidents knew they could hide up there) and
then creep on dusty beams and air ducts like a mischievous kid, trying to find
a secret route to the commissary. So
there, Janet, (a mental tongue sticks out at her.) No, you're not asking her to send a nurse for
the commissary's overcooked chicken pot pie, squishy peas and all.
Okay,
so maybe you *are* hungry, but you're hopelessly right-handed, and you have no
idea how you're going to get the food to your mouth in a civilized manner.
The
ice pack on your right shoulder slips, dragging a cold path down your bicep,
and you reach your left hand across your body to awkwardly drag it back
somewhat in place. The cooling contact
does help dull the throb of the leftover sprain. Your dad's touch was cool,
too, and his face was gently worried, with tiny lines between his eyebrows
before the light of the Tok'ra healing device obscured his face. He'd stopped the throbbing in your head, and
when he finished, the teltac no longer felt as though
it was spinning in free fall. He flopped
back onto his heels when he was done, his back curling with exhaustion, and for
a moment you thought he was going to lie beside you on the floor. "I'm sorry, Sam, I'll have to fix the
shoulder later," he gasped, and you were glad Selmak was sensible enough
to make him stop before he hurt himself.
You
sigh, hoping he's resting somewhere – maybe he's in a room on base, too tired
to bother with traveling to your house, and you close your eyes, trying to sink
back into the semi-reclined mattress.
The bag of crushed ice makes a sound like a sigh, too, and then plops
onto the floor. "Shit."
"Hey
Carter, I know McDonald's isn't as good as the commissary's pot pie, but
there's no need to use that kind of language."
You
open your eyes. "Colonel!" He stands in the doorway with an armload of
bright-patterned paper bags. He's
looking altogether too mature, too solemn; his inner child is firmly at the
controls.
Your
bad mood starts to slip away; this could be fun. You ease yourself up a little straighter,
wondering how messed up your hair is and despising the vanity of the
thought.
His
head tilts slightly. "I heard you'd
been incarcerated, so I thought take-out would be the best option for
lunch."
Since
your father may be currently poisoning himself with your shrimp lo mein, you don't want to think much about take-out right
now, but you do need to eat. He strolls
your direction, half-obscured by the little bags, and people shouldn't be
allowed to look sexy when they're just *walking*, damn him. Forbidden fruit. "Unless you'd rather
do commissary food. Last I heard
they were still on that low fat, low carb, low salt, low texture kick.
Very healthy."
The
odor of salt and greasy potatoes drift your way, high-fat, high-calorie, and so
very tantalizing; your eyes meet his, and half the fun is the temptation, isn't
it? "No, no, unhealthy is
fine. Unhealthy is actually
preferable."
You
pull yourself fully upright, grateful that the ice pack is on the ground and
you don't have to worry about it.
"I can feel my arteries beginning to clog already. Those french fries
smell delicious."
He
drags a roll-around cart beside your bed.
His eyebrows are raised in false innocence. "Oh, well, maybe I should eat them all,
if they're that bad for you."
"Give
me that." You reach left-handed for
one of the bags (a bit less gingerly than you should, damn shoulder,) and he
jerks away.
"Ah, ah! Patience will be
rewarded." The bags are patterned
with writing in large, blob-like type and cartoon pictures, and the scent of
the food is overwhelming now, almost heady.
"Good things are better if they're savored, Carter," he
admonishes, and sets the bags and drink holder down one by one, over-carefully
slow. Oh yes, savored, lingering and
tantalizing, with dim lights and feather-light touches running down your
spine. Oh, God.
You
wrench your thoughts back to more appropriate territory and focus on the
bags. "Happy
Meals?" You're actually
quite familiar with the things. Janet
goes on a Happy Meals tear when the toys are Mini Beanie Babies. She has a multi-colored worm on the monitor
in her office, and Rocket the Blue Jay still adorns the top of your
television.
He
pulls the little burgers out of the bags, checking slips of paper taped to
them, and finally hands you some bags.
"These are Mighty Kids meals, for bigger kids. The mini-burgers have double meat, and you
still get toys. These two are for
you." You don't tell him you
already know the difference; it's far more appropriate for him to be the Happy
Meals expert than you.
You
glance at the bags. "And you get
three?"
He
shrugs. "I was hungry."
Unthinkingly,
you start to grab with your right hand, and a flash of pain hits that you try
to cover up by shifting and reaching quickly with your left. The corners of his eyes tighten, and you know
he saw the flinch, but he respects your dignity and settles the bag where you
can comfortably pull things out. The
fries are cooked perfectly, just crisp enough and somehow still a little
warm. You wolf them down, pinching three
or four together at a time.
The
paper crackles as you unwrap the first burger.
The smaller size makes them easier to hold one-handed than you'd
expected. You eye the Colonel
suspiciously. "How'd you get
lettuce and tomato on the burger? I
thought they didn't do that for Happy Meals."
"Mighty Kid's Meals, Carter.
And I used my considerable charm to best effect." He flashes that adorable grin (Adorable? Get a grip, Sam.)
You
try to look, well, something other than charmed, and say nonchalantly, "Oh
yeah, you know the manager there, don't you?"
He
raises his eyebrows and tilts his head again, (damn it, he knows that gets to
you, and even if you're alone he shouldn't be flirting like this.) "I was still charming."
You
pause before taking the next bite.
"I'm sure you were, sir."
You bite slowly, looking at his face, (Oh, yeah, Sam, way to take the
high road here,) and you see his breathing pick up a bit. For a moment you feel like you're on your
Indian, taking a curve almost-too-fast, and then he turns his attention to
unwrapping another burger and you've both made it safely around the bend. Very satisfying, and a bit
intoxicating, playing with fire like this.
Lt.
Rush walks up to stare at the monitor you are (unnecessarily!) attached to and
scribbles notes on your chart. The
Colonel and you discuss the weather in
Stuffing
the last bite of his third burger in his mouth, he pulls an odd plastic-wrapped
shape out of one of his bags. He tugs
(two-handed, and you're momentarily jealous of his two usable arms) and rips
open the clear plastic that's slathered with legal warnings. A brown horse with overlarge teeth and a
molded-on saddle tumbles onto the white blanket.
The
Colonel picks him up. "Cool! A wind-up Bullseye!"
You're still chewing, so you try to look questioning. It works.
"Woody's horse from Toy Story 2." He doesn't bother to explain how he knows
this, but it doesn't really need explaining.
You
settle back onto the bed and pull out your toys - Buzz Lightyear
(you recognize that one) with a little red light on one arm that flashes and
makes a ray gun noise, and a cowgirl with bendable limbs.
"Cool! You got Jessie! I got two more Ray Gun Buzzes."
You
glance at his collection. "I'll bet
Teal'c would like one."
"He
probably would. Oh, yeah – I almost
forgot dessert." Dessert? He pulls out a plastic container with rather
semi-solid black and white contents. "A hot fudge sundae from the same fine establishment that
provided your meal."
You
blink. You haven't had one of those in
years. "McDonald's
sundaes?"
"Complete
with a little packet of nuts if you want them.
They're probably getting pretty soft, so you better eat it
now." He pops the lid off one
sundae and holds it out to you.
You
take it with your left hand and squirm around for a moment trying to figure out
the best way to do this. Between
spoonfuls of his sundae, the Colonel is trying to figure out how to get Jessie
wrapped around Bullseye so she can go for a ride,
(you are *so* not thinking about the Freudian implications, nonono.) You sip off the liquid around the edges
first; it's very sweet, with a touch of chocolate bitterness, and a bit of
fudge sticks to your upper lip. You run
your tongue carefully across your lip, then realize
what you must look like and glance self-consciously at the Colonel, who is
studiously adjusting Jessie, fortunately.
(Does he look too engrossed? Yeah, probably.)
Holding the container by the rim, you stick the cold sundae container
between your thighs (damn Freud anyway,) because that's the only way you can
grip it and eat with one hand.
Janet
wanders in, greeting the Colonel, and sends Lt. Rush off for her coffee
break. You meet each others eyes, and
the anger inside you has passed, thankfully.
She barely nods, but she read the change in your mood because the
tension in the corners of her mouth slips into a relieved half-smile, and then
she walks over to slowly flip pages back and forth in your chart.
You
dip the spoon awkwardly into the cup gripped between your legs, and you realize
that this is going to be harder than you thought. The sundae tries to tilt as you lift out a
spoonful. Gingerly, you ease the ice
cream towards your mouth. Too gingerly,
you realize as a blob of ice cream falls from the spoon onto your chest, cold
and soon-to-be sticky. You swear and
set the sundae back on the cart.
As
the ice cream soaks through the hospital gown, Janet snorts and walks toward
the sink. The Colonel stares at your
cleavage looking awkward. He clears his
throat. "Sorry,
Carter. I, um…. Oh!" Digging in one of the Happy Meal bags, he
pulls out a napkin and hands it to you, and then stuffs his hands in his
pockets and studies the heart monitor that's apparently unhappy with your
wiggling and wiping.
Janet
returns with a damp rag. "Why don't
I just call a nurse to feed you, Sam?"
"Oh, God, no."
How humiliating. You wipe at the
sticky spot. The dampness soaks through
to your skin, not at all cooling the flush that you're certain has full hold over your face.
The
Colonel nods in the general direction of the cart and food and your bed. "I'll take care of it, Doc."
Janet's
eyebrows raise, and the corners of her mouth twitch. "Okay, Colonel." She's enjoying this entirely too much; are
all physicians this sadistic?
"Sir…."
You try to come up with a more eloquent protest, but nothing comes out. You clench the rag in your fist into a ball,
and it drips, cold and slow, on your left thigh.
He
waves his hand and his tone is ever-so-condescending. "I promised you lunch; this is part of
lunch."
You
glance up at the security camera.
"I'd rather not have a tape of that show up at the SGC Christmas
party." Or worse,
on Kinsey's desk.
"You
know, I think there's a draft from this direction." Janet pulls the privacy curtain halfway. "I'll be in my office." She walks away into her glass-fronted
office. Janet sits down and turns
sideways, typing on the computer. Her
eyes seem locked on the screen of the monitor.
Resigned
to your fate, you dump the rag on the cart.
The Colonel pushes the cart out of the way and steps close, and you
sigh, "This is embarrassing."
He
dips the spoon into the crest of the sundae.
"Only for you, Carter." You try too hard to glare at him, and he
smiles triumphantly and nudges a bit of hot fudge onto the tip of the
spoon.
You've
decided Buzz will look rather appropriate next to a blue jay called
Rocket. Jessie stays in your lab drawer,
though, so you can give the Colonel something to fiddle with when he
visits. Maybe he'll bring Bullseye.
You
wrap your mouth around the spoon as the Colonel holds it out. As the soft, cool sweetness melts against the
roof of your mouth and he pulls away for another spoonful, you don't give a
damn about the mildewing food that's always in your fridge, or the lack of a
picket fence and wedding ring and 2.5 kids; what you have here is something you
treasure, something you wouldn't trade for any planet. The Colonel's eyes meet yours, and you know
life is good.
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