"Circles"
By Aeryn
Rated R
Minor Season 8 Spoilers
Notes: I usually hate fics like this, so of course this one kept poking at me until I had to write it. Bleah. Also, it's a WIP, so any encouraging anti-bleah feedback would be appreciated.
She was quickly losing patience.
In fact, she'd already lost it, and, to her shame, was struggling to keep herself from beating him over the head with her keyboard.
She was tired, she felt like hammered shit, and Siler was sitting there staring at her blankly. The word 'incomprehension' was stamped all over his face in bright red letters.
"Okay, never mind, for now," she said. "Let's take a break. Be back in 15 minutes."
The look of incomprehension was quickly replaced with one of relief. "Yes, ma'am," Siler said, and rushed out of the room like the devil himself was at his heels.
She sighed, then rested her head on her desk for a moment. She liked Siler, but he was driving her nuts. They'd never get anywhere at this rate.
I'm too old for this shit, she thought.
She stood and headed for O'Neill's office.
"Sir?"
"Carter? Come on in," he said, before resuming his struggle with his desk drawer, cursing a blue streak.
"Sir, it's Siler."
He yanked, hard. Nothing.
"What about Siler?" He got down on his knees, ouch, and started yanking as hard as he could with both hands.
"He's just not . . . I don't know, he just isn't catching on. I don't know if he's just not paying attention or if it's just me or . . ."
She was interrupted by the sound of splintering wood. It should have meant success, if one defined success as a desk drawer reduced to sawdust, but the damned thing was still stuck fast.
"Dammit! I'm too old for this shit!" He sat in his chair and glared at the desk as if it were an airman disobeying orders, a look that had made mortal men quake in their boots. The stupid desk could've cared less.
"Sir . . ."
"Colonel, Siler's a smart guy."
"I know, but . . ."
He gave the drawer another yank.
"You have to quit thinking like, well, like YOU, and start thinking like a teacher. The rest of us aren't running at the same RPM as you are."
She sighed.
He paused in his struggle with the desk. "Siler can do this. Maybe not as well as you, maybe not as quickly as you, but he's the next best thing to a YOU that we've got."
She leaned back against the wall. God, she was tired.
"You know, you're a little bit intimidating." Yank, yank, yank, ow.
"What?"
"You and Daniel both. When either of you get started on something," Kick. "You REALLY go off. Sometimes the rest of us couldn't follow you with a map, a compass and a global positioning system."
She rolled her eyes, then watched as he disappeared under the desk, looking for some clue as to why the thing wasn't cooperating.
"It's not THAT bad," she said, thinking that maybe it actually was.
Yank.
"Siler looks up to you, so take it easy on him." Shit. Splinter.
"It'll be fine. Slow down," Yank. Curse. Kick. "And let him find his own pace. Pretend . . . pretend that you're teaching ME, if that helps."
She grinned.
He glared. "It wasn't THAT funny."
He returned his attention to his ongoing battle with his desk drawer "You know what it is," he said, pointing at the desk with both index fingers, eyes narrowed. "It's possessed. It hates me. It never did anything like this to Hammond, I'll bet. Or maybe Hammond booby-trapped it. Serves me right, I suppose."
She shifted uncomfortably.
"Speaking of," she said, hesitantly. "When are you going to call him?"
He looked at her. "Tonight."
She sighed, running her hands over her face. "Are you SURE you want to do this?"
"Positive. We've been through this."
"I know, but . . ."
"Ah ah ah! No buts. It's been decided." He returned his gaze to his desk, and with a look of desperation, yanked one more time.
Nothing.
"Crap. I give up. Surrender." He paused. "But maybe if I had a blowtorch . . ."
She snorted as an image of the desk in flames danced through her mind. "What is in there that you need so badly?"
"Uh, important, you know, stuff."
Her eyes narrowed. "Like what?"
"Just . . . stuff."
"What stuff?"
He sat back, arms crossed, looking at her defiantly.
"Jellybeans."
"Jellybeans?" Urgh.
"Jellybeans. All kinds."
Oh, God. "Uh . . ."
"Especially the black ones, I love the . . . uh-oh . . ."
She was running for the bathroom. He beat her to it and held the door open as she barreled through and pulled the door closed behind her. He leaned against it, listening. Ugh. He grimaced in sympathy.
"You okay in there?"
Silence.
"Carter?
Silence.
"Sam?"
"I'm fine," she said, faintly.
"You sure?"
"Sir, can I use your toothbrush?"
He winced but didn't hesitate. "Sure." He made a mental note to stock up on toothbrushes.
She emerged finally, pale and shaky.
He took her hand and squeezed it. "Why don't you call it a day? Go home and go to bed. You could use a break. Siler could too, from the sound of things."
She sighed, shaking her head. "I've got too much to do . . ."
"It'll get done."
"Sir . . ."
He knew what she was about to say. "This is NOT special treatment. I'd do the same for anyone who was puking up their shoes every time they turned around. Just go home and let me get my jell – I mean, my stuff out of that damned drawer."
She would have fought harder but her guts were telling her to stand down, and NOW.
"Fine. But just this once," she said.
"Just this once. You okay to drive?"
She nodded.
"Off you go, then. Shoo. Outta here."
He watched her leave, concerned. Maybe he'd take off a little early himself.
He pulled out his phone as soon as he was in the truck.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey, yourself. Feeling any better?"
"Well, I haven't thrown up for the past three hours."
"Progress!"
"I guess." She sounded miserable. "Did you take off early?"
"I don't suppose you're hungry?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Starving."
"Donuts?"
"What else?"
"Be there soon."