Who Needs Talking?
by Bryn
EMAIL: buddygirl19@yahoo.com
STATUS: complete
RATING: PG
CATEGORY: D/J, humor
SPOILERS: only for my fic: "The Briefing from Hell"
SEASON/SEQUEL: season 5, sequel to "What Was I
Thinking?" by Kat, which was a sequel to "The Briefing
from Hell"
SUMMARY: Janet's nervous, Danny's nervous, so what's a
girl to do?
DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognisable characters and
places are the property of MGM, World Gekko Corp and
Double Secret Productions. This piece of fan fiction
was created for entertainment not monetary purposes
and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was
intended. Previously unrecognized characters and
places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
coincidental and not intended by the author.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Back by popular demand... **looks
around at everyone staring at her** ahem, that is,
here's the sequel :)
FEEDBACK: Kat told me I can't be *everyone's* best
friend, so I'll just have to settle for thinking
you're really cool if you send me feedback! :)
I manage to get through his entire physical without
saying a word to Daniel (not too hard, we both know
the routine) and without looking him in the eye (a bit
harder, especially when I was trying to check his
eyes). Now he’s putting his shirt back on and I’m
supposedly scribbling down something on his file.
He’s about to leave. Should I say something? I’ve
wanted to say a million things to him since that
briefing, but actually coming up with something not
lame or embarrassing was another matter. I managed to
walk by his office door about a dozen times in the two
hours between the briefing and when SG-1 went off
world, but the fact that I’m a huge chicken got in the
way of actually going in. Then in the 24-hour period
where he was off world, I managed to convince myself
that as soon as he returned, I’d talk to him. But now
he’s back and that resolution’s gone out the window in
record time.
Damnit, why can’t *he* say something? He did start
this after all! He made a move, then I countered it,
now it’s his turn again. Yes, I like that
rationality. It’s his turn, therefore I’m not at
fault for being a big ol’ coward.
This is Daniel, though. And as brilliant as the man
is concerning anthropology, for some reason that
brilliance doesn’t seem to expand to other areas of
his life, such as, oh, dating. Or lack of dating,
whatever it is we are or are not doing.
Suddenly I jump as he places his hand over mine, which
is resting on the top of the clipboard I was
supposedly writing on. Internally cringing, I realize
I’ve been standing here blankly staring at the paper,
not doing anything for who knows how long. Great, now
he thinks I’m a complete nutcase. Unfortunately, he’s
probably right. In the span of one day I’ve managed
to fall head over heels for a man whose only move
toward me has been to lightly touch my hand. …And
draw little circles and patterns on my skin which left
an incredible tingling sensation in their wake… Ok,
*bad* train of thought to be having when he’s standing
there staring at me.
I look at his hand, then hesitantly up at him. How is
it that I’ve never noticed how blue his eyes are
before? I’m quickly becoming in danger of melting
into a puddle of sap on the floor. Now I *really*
don’t know what to say.
Evidently he doesn’t either, because he opens his
mouth, then seems to think better of it and quickly
closes it again. Instead he runs his thumb slowly
down mine until he’s pressing the ends together,
soothingly, comfortably, as if he’d done the gesture a
thousand times before. Then he blinks and slowly
slides his hand off mine, trailing his fingertips
across the top of my hand and down my fingers, then
letting his arm drop to his side as he starts to walk
away.
“Daniel…” I manage to choke out as I turn around
towards him, dead set on telling him how I feel, or at
the very least begging him not to go. Then he turns
to look at me again and the rest of whatever I was
going to say dies in my throat. I meet his gaze and
shake my head, both in an attempt to clear it and to
let him know that it was nothing.
As he turns to go again he gives me one last
pathetically cute look before he goes to walk out the
door.
I want to sigh. Hell, I want to do a lot more than
that. At the very least I want to kiss him. Just
reach up, wrap one arm around his neck and pull him
down into a passionate, all-consuming kiss, which will
once and for all put to rest any question of just
exactly what went on in that briefing room.
Oh *shit*.
That was an errant, wishful thought, I’m not actually
supposed to be kissing him. But somehow, I am. I so
did not give my lips permission to do this.
Pull away. I’ll just pull away and apologize
profusely. Claim temporary insanity or something.
Only it’s hard to pull away when he’s kissing me back.
And he’s wrapped one arm around my waist to pull me
close. And cupped my cheek with the other hand. And,
oh, the things he’s doing with his tongue…
Hmm, yes, kissing is much better than talking. Who
needs talking, really? Kissing is, after all, a far
better method of communication. Why didn’t we just do
this in the first place?
finis!
Copyright (c) Bryn 2001
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