TITLE: Just the floor

AUTHOR: Demon Faith

EMAIL: demon_faith@btopenworld.com

CATEGORY: Vignette, Outsider POV

SPOILERS: Small references to various S/D things.

SEASON/SEQUEL: Set Season 5, pre-Meridian.

RATING: G

CONTENT WARNINGS: None

SUMMARY: Her favourite shift is Sunday graveyard, and it’s all because of one office.

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 does not belong to me nor will it ever. Amanda Tapping and Michael Shanks belong happily to themselves, and own their characters more than the studio ever will.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Nothing like a break from everything to make you write something random. Not really sure where this came from, but a week spent studying a couple and just the way they were together has been good for my romantic soul, and I guess this is the inevitable result: Sap fic.

I don’t have the most exciting job in the world. The pay’s not great, the hours are anti-social and I hardly ever see a soul.

But I like Sunday graveyard. That seems strange, doesn’t it? Sunday is when people relax, eat out, take their lives and run. Most people do that.

The Mountain is desperately quiet during Sunday graveyard – only a few marines are left, the ones forced to work this nightmare shift by air force leaders. Most teams are home, there’s nothing to see up here. I just take my duster and duck in and out of classified areas, cloth flicking over high-security intel and eyes never straying from my task. I have one of the highest security clearances on base, but that doesn’t mean I look. I don’t want to know if the world is ending – I prefer ignorance.

They nod to me, smile sometimes – I’m not much to look at, but I think I’m just a change. They chat idly around me, rumours and gossip mostly – you learn things.

Colonel O’Neill loves Major Carter – or maybe, Doctor Frasier, but she definitely has a thing for Doctor Jackson...but that was last week, I think it’s Teal’c now. No one cares to speculate about his feelings; they all seem to fear him.

I’ve seen him a few times. He sometimes leaves a cleaning notice on his door, usually for candle wax or stray pieces of popcorn. I’ll step in quietly and he’ll be sitting there amongst his candles. I pass on by, clean around and move on.

Which brings me to my favourite place, the reason Sunday graveyard is my favourite shift. The science levels are never empty. There will always be someone there, raised voices carrying through thin doors and murmurs that seem to come from everywhere at once. Cheyenne can mess with you – ghost corridors and vast emptiness with minimal light – but the science quarter makes it all worth it.

Because tucked away, beyond shouting and whispered theories, is a quiet office. It hasn’t changed much in five years, and that’s fine with me, because there’s a soul in this room. Sure, things have moved on – pictures have receded to far-off corners, more computers have appeared to replace the books, but it’s still mostly the same.

This is a special place. This is a place that is infused with a thirst for knowledge and a certainty that the answers are close. I don’t like to touch anything here, although the cleaning sign is always over the handle. There’s too much to disturb, as if I’m brushing aside memories with the dust.

Artefacts cover this small place. Some would be treasured for their age, their answers – my brother likes archaeology, so I delight in what I see – but some of these objects contain something more powerful than that.

A newspaper constellation has been laminated and hung; cookie bags have been carefully flattened and stacked under a book; a collection of dried vine are preserved in a jar – they mean nothing to me and probably little to the gossiping marines below. But they must mean the world to this man, because they are always free from dust, and I can’t bring myself to touch them.

So, I leave the shelves and move on. A large desk takes up the centre of the room, but still I keep away, despite the dust that pervades it. The reason here is different though – I can’t reach nor do I want to.

Because here they sleep, the long week finally dragging them down, their will exhausted. It’s always the same – she will have fallen first, fingers still touching at her coffee cup, whilst he will have settled later, maybe far away at first, but when I find them, he is draped across her, arm tucked possessively into hers, face buried in her hair. His other hand loops around, fingers seeking contact with hers. Occasionally, if I look long enough, they’ll shift and move closer, resettling with looks of peace, with contentment.

And if everyone saw what I see, they’d saw screw the rumour mill, here’s the truth. Here, no one can deny that Doctor Jackson loves Major Carter and she needs him just as much. And it’s beautiful.

So, I leave the shelves, I leave the desk and I just kneel and brush at crumbs of chocolate and spray coffee stains, giving the floor what I can’t touch with the room. Because I want to be part of this – the power of knowledge, the dust of memories and the love that is obvious only on Sunday graveyard.

I love my job.