Originally posted by Yusagi
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Aw, but you must share! XD There's so little CamCaro, even the sad ones are shareworthy D:
Oh wow, I was looking over my googledocs, and found a few unfinished CamCaro fics. I'll need to talk to Kit about perhaps finishing at least one we had started, in which Cam and Carolyn investigate and get trapped on an Ancient medical base.
An excerpt from what we currently have:
His frown deepened, as he reached out to steady her. "Alright...how about we sit down for awhile until the effects do fade? We've got awhile yet to practice the fine art of entertainment." He pointed toward a nearby work bench. "We can sit there till you're a bit more steady."
"Better idea," she agreed with a soft grunt. Lam did manage to get over to it without more than one grab for solidity and sank against the bench in relief. "Fifteen, sixteen hours," she said quietly. "I think I've got that calculation on that right." She couldn't quite find a comfortable angle to sit and it annoyed her. "I suppose it is a fine art..."
Once the doctor managed to sit in a position that appeared vaguely comfortable, he made his way across the space of the gym to sit down next to her. At her statement, he crossed his arms and nodded. "Yep. It's a fine art, alright. Very tricky."
"Tricky is wobbling about drunkenly with a numb knee folding on you. But I'd think that might be amusing as well." She propped herself up against him and arched an eyebrow when that actually worked. "In certain respects." Lam covered a yawn, which annoyed her far more than her knee, and sat there for a moment, head tilted as if she were listening. Besides the two of them, the hum of the engines, and the streaks of space outside the window, it was dead silent.
"It can be." He shifted his arm to accommodate her weight, and hooked a hand around one of her shoulders. He gave an inaudible sigh, leaning against one of the pillars of a machine immediately beside the bench. "Good thing I know all the tricks."
"You do," she said, brushing her fingers against his knuckles. "Temporary knee issues will be resolved. And I feel like I need a nap, which is sad considering all the coffee I've had in the last 48 hours." Which was quite a bit. "No naps, though. Those are for very old women and very small children." Her hand stayed on top of his as she shook her head lightly.
He gave a light chuckle, turning his head to gaze down at her over her head. "Naps aren't only for the extremes. Sometimes...you've got sixteen hours to kill, with nothin' to do, and a numb knee that's cuttin' you off from the tour. That doesn't leave a lot of alternatives."
"But there's always lots of alternatives!" Lam protested. "That's why they're called alternatives." She tilted her chin to look up at him, an outrageous pout sitting there like he'd just told her the entire mission had been scrubbed. "I avoid naps on principle."
"Alright..." He shifted, leaning the both of them forward, so that his chin was level with
hers. "Tell me a few you can think of, and we can pick one or two."
She said the first thing that came to mind and immediately regretted it.
"Pancakes?" So, maybe that didn't quiet work. "Poker. Cheesy horror movies." Actually her brain was sliding sideways, which probably didn't help her think any more clearly. "Pop...corn?" That was said hopefully as she tilted her chin a bit more. "Okay, so...poker's a bad idea even for matchsticks. And pancakes...I don't even know where that came from."
He spared her a brief, dubious grin, before shaking his head, and gesturing vaguely toward her knee. "No playing cards, pancake mix, or popcorn bags within hobbling distance. More alternatives? Or d'ya gotta admit, the nap thing isn't so bad?"
"Never admitting naps are a good idea," she grumbled. "They're boring. As soon as you find a way to make a nap not boring, I might consider it." She shifted slightly to face him with a very serious look on her face, her eyes wide. "Naps," she said, "are just...useless."
He returned her serious expression with one of his own. "You try saying that after forty-eight hours with a sleep-starved bug in your head. Naps can be wonderfully refreshing." He shrugged again, offering a wry smile. "You'll have to figure somethin' out. Consider it a lesson in fun."
"That wasn't a nap," she pointed out, leaning in to make her point. "That was a bug. And then it wasn't and you crashed. Totally different than a damn nap." Lam was probably slightly too indignant. "And I was up for that...long....too." That wasn't supposed to come out at all. "I...stayed up." Lam flapped a hand and sighed. "Maybe a little longer until we had what we needed and--" She fell silent, hanging a few centimeters away.
His expression thinned, forming a wary frown. "There wasn't anything you could've done. No need to be up that long." He reached up to touch her jaw with a thumb, still frowning. "SGC could have needed its CMO for something else. Don't do that anymore."
"It didn't," she murmured. "And I had to make sure I'd run every scenario, that I'd gotten it right. I checked and rechecked and made sense of it because I couldn't afford to be wrong." Her eyes closed for a half second. "It's my responsibility to make sure that whatever crap you," her voice broke once, sharply, "get into, you survive. I can deal with lost sleep. I can deal with it. I don't want to hear that because of something I missed--" Her jaw clicked shut and she just stared at him.
"Hey. Hey." His frown was severe, and held a firm annoyance. "It is not your fault. You are not going to screw up. You're our CMO for a reason, Doctor."
"I triple check reports because I'm the CMO, so I don't make those mistakes. Because there's always that one crucial piece of data that could decide who comes home and who comes home in a bag." She shook her head, just a fraction of an inch that was more of a jerk than not. "I refuse," she said, strained, "to see," her eyes closed and her voice fell to a whisper, "your face in that bag, Mitchell."
He was quiet for a few moments, expression unchanged. "Doctor." He brought up his hands to hold her cheeks and jaw firmly in place. "Stop it. Don't second-guess yourself. Everyone on base trusts your decisions. I trust your decisions, and they've saved all of our lives more times than I could count. That's not going to change because you get to have a semblance of your own life. Wouldn't be worth that price, even if it did."
"Professionally," she said in a tight voice, "I'm perfectly qualified. I'm trained, my hands are sure, and I make little in the way of mistakes. I do everything in my power, God-willing, to make sure every surgery, every wound, every stitch goes as perfectly as possible. I know my hands and my head work well under pressure, I know I can be trusted, but that does not negate the fact that, whether it's objective or not, I can see it when things go wrong. Here. In my head. It's not a matter of what sort of doctor I am or if I can handle the position." Lam's fingers slid over his hands and her smile was as wobbly as her inert and forgotten knee had been.
"It's personal and it's been personal for awhile, Colonel," she said very softly. "And, I think, it's about time I said that."
He was silent once more, studying the doctor's expressions and features for a minute--perhaps nearly two. His quiet was broken with a quick word of acceptance and a nod, and by eliminating the minimal distance that remained between the doctor and he. A determination of her definition of 'personal'.
She leaned into him carefully and kissed him with the fierceness that came with bottling that particular emotion away for so many years. And it had been years. She had been so careful to keep herself professional, to deny, deny, deny. And she was tired of denial, ready to throw it away, and this mission had somehow offered her that opportunity. Her fingers found his hair, smoothed the nape of his neck, and made sure he knew in no uncertain terms exactly what personal meant. There were a good thousand definitions, after all, but none of them felt so right and words (which had usually been there in some form or another) had long ceased to help. Somehow, maybe she'd felt it coming on some ridiculous level of consciousness. And that sounded about a crazy as aliens and Stargates and other planets had years ago. When the sharp flare of ferocity ebbed there was sweetness left and she let him have that as well, slow, and easy and sure.
Whether fierce and demanding, or warm and soft, he shifted and held his own as well as if it had still been their dancing staves, of earlier. He met the challenge as well, and as earnestly, as any other he had thrown himself into during his time in SG-1. When soft and sweet met languid, he offered a small, warm smile to the doctor. "Really don't call me Colonel."
Oh wow, I was looking over my googledocs, and found a few unfinished CamCaro fics. I'll need to talk to Kit about perhaps finishing at least one we had started, in which Cam and Carolyn investigate and get trapped on an Ancient medical base.
An excerpt from what we currently have:
Spoiler:
His frown deepened, as he reached out to steady her. "Alright...how about we sit down for awhile until the effects do fade? We've got awhile yet to practice the fine art of entertainment." He pointed toward a nearby work bench. "We can sit there till you're a bit more steady."
"Better idea," she agreed with a soft grunt. Lam did manage to get over to it without more than one grab for solidity and sank against the bench in relief. "Fifteen, sixteen hours," she said quietly. "I think I've got that calculation on that right." She couldn't quite find a comfortable angle to sit and it annoyed her. "I suppose it is a fine art..."
Once the doctor managed to sit in a position that appeared vaguely comfortable, he made his way across the space of the gym to sit down next to her. At her statement, he crossed his arms and nodded. "Yep. It's a fine art, alright. Very tricky."
"Tricky is wobbling about drunkenly with a numb knee folding on you. But I'd think that might be amusing as well." She propped herself up against him and arched an eyebrow when that actually worked. "In certain respects." Lam covered a yawn, which annoyed her far more than her knee, and sat there for a moment, head tilted as if she were listening. Besides the two of them, the hum of the engines, and the streaks of space outside the window, it was dead silent.
"It can be." He shifted his arm to accommodate her weight, and hooked a hand around one of her shoulders. He gave an inaudible sigh, leaning against one of the pillars of a machine immediately beside the bench. "Good thing I know all the tricks."
"You do," she said, brushing her fingers against his knuckles. "Temporary knee issues will be resolved. And I feel like I need a nap, which is sad considering all the coffee I've had in the last 48 hours." Which was quite a bit. "No naps, though. Those are for very old women and very small children." Her hand stayed on top of his as she shook her head lightly.
He gave a light chuckle, turning his head to gaze down at her over her head. "Naps aren't only for the extremes. Sometimes...you've got sixteen hours to kill, with nothin' to do, and a numb knee that's cuttin' you off from the tour. That doesn't leave a lot of alternatives."
"But there's always lots of alternatives!" Lam protested. "That's why they're called alternatives." She tilted her chin to look up at him, an outrageous pout sitting there like he'd just told her the entire mission had been scrubbed. "I avoid naps on principle."
"Alright..." He shifted, leaning the both of them forward, so that his chin was level with
hers. "Tell me a few you can think of, and we can pick one or two."
She said the first thing that came to mind and immediately regretted it.
"Pancakes?" So, maybe that didn't quiet work. "Poker. Cheesy horror movies." Actually her brain was sliding sideways, which probably didn't help her think any more clearly. "Pop...corn?" That was said hopefully as she tilted her chin a bit more. "Okay, so...poker's a bad idea even for matchsticks. And pancakes...I don't even know where that came from."
He spared her a brief, dubious grin, before shaking his head, and gesturing vaguely toward her knee. "No playing cards, pancake mix, or popcorn bags within hobbling distance. More alternatives? Or d'ya gotta admit, the nap thing isn't so bad?"
"Never admitting naps are a good idea," she grumbled. "They're boring. As soon as you find a way to make a nap not boring, I might consider it." She shifted slightly to face him with a very serious look on her face, her eyes wide. "Naps," she said, "are just...useless."
He returned her serious expression with one of his own. "You try saying that after forty-eight hours with a sleep-starved bug in your head. Naps can be wonderfully refreshing." He shrugged again, offering a wry smile. "You'll have to figure somethin' out. Consider it a lesson in fun."
"That wasn't a nap," she pointed out, leaning in to make her point. "That was a bug. And then it wasn't and you crashed. Totally different than a damn nap." Lam was probably slightly too indignant. "And I was up for that...long....too." That wasn't supposed to come out at all. "I...stayed up." Lam flapped a hand and sighed. "Maybe a little longer until we had what we needed and--" She fell silent, hanging a few centimeters away.
His expression thinned, forming a wary frown. "There wasn't anything you could've done. No need to be up that long." He reached up to touch her jaw with a thumb, still frowning. "SGC could have needed its CMO for something else. Don't do that anymore."
"It didn't," she murmured. "And I had to make sure I'd run every scenario, that I'd gotten it right. I checked and rechecked and made sense of it because I couldn't afford to be wrong." Her eyes closed for a half second. "It's my responsibility to make sure that whatever crap you," her voice broke once, sharply, "get into, you survive. I can deal with lost sleep. I can deal with it. I don't want to hear that because of something I missed--" Her jaw clicked shut and she just stared at him.
"Hey. Hey." His frown was severe, and held a firm annoyance. "It is not your fault. You are not going to screw up. You're our CMO for a reason, Doctor."
"I triple check reports because I'm the CMO, so I don't make those mistakes. Because there's always that one crucial piece of data that could decide who comes home and who comes home in a bag." She shook her head, just a fraction of an inch that was more of a jerk than not. "I refuse," she said, strained, "to see," her eyes closed and her voice fell to a whisper, "your face in that bag, Mitchell."
He was quiet for a few moments, expression unchanged. "Doctor." He brought up his hands to hold her cheeks and jaw firmly in place. "Stop it. Don't second-guess yourself. Everyone on base trusts your decisions. I trust your decisions, and they've saved all of our lives more times than I could count. That's not going to change because you get to have a semblance of your own life. Wouldn't be worth that price, even if it did."
"Professionally," she said in a tight voice, "I'm perfectly qualified. I'm trained, my hands are sure, and I make little in the way of mistakes. I do everything in my power, God-willing, to make sure every surgery, every wound, every stitch goes as perfectly as possible. I know my hands and my head work well under pressure, I know I can be trusted, but that does not negate the fact that, whether it's objective or not, I can see it when things go wrong. Here. In my head. It's not a matter of what sort of doctor I am or if I can handle the position." Lam's fingers slid over his hands and her smile was as wobbly as her inert and forgotten knee had been.
"It's personal and it's been personal for awhile, Colonel," she said very softly. "And, I think, it's about time I said that."
He was silent once more, studying the doctor's expressions and features for a minute--perhaps nearly two. His quiet was broken with a quick word of acceptance and a nod, and by eliminating the minimal distance that remained between the doctor and he. A determination of her definition of 'personal'.
She leaned into him carefully and kissed him with the fierceness that came with bottling that particular emotion away for so many years. And it had been years. She had been so careful to keep herself professional, to deny, deny, deny. And she was tired of denial, ready to throw it away, and this mission had somehow offered her that opportunity. Her fingers found his hair, smoothed the nape of his neck, and made sure he knew in no uncertain terms exactly what personal meant. There were a good thousand definitions, after all, but none of them felt so right and words (which had usually been there in some form or another) had long ceased to help. Somehow, maybe she'd felt it coming on some ridiculous level of consciousness. And that sounded about a crazy as aliens and Stargates and other planets had years ago. When the sharp flare of ferocity ebbed there was sweetness left and she let him have that as well, slow, and easy and sure.
Whether fierce and demanding, or warm and soft, he shifted and held his own as well as if it had still been their dancing staves, of earlier. He met the challenge as well, and as earnestly, as any other he had thrown himself into during his time in SG-1. When soft and sweet met languid, he offered a small, warm smile to the doctor. "Really don't call me Colonel."
I'll consider posting my fic. *sigh* I have a few changes to make. I thought about having him survive. Or SG-1 stealing his body and taking him to a sarcophagus. LOL!! I think I'll leave him dead though.
Originally posted by Everlovin
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Are you two trying to kill me? I so can't handle it when the characters I love die! I cry!
This is good! Please! Write more!
This is good! Please! Write more!
Especially with buttons and elevators.
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