cross-posted random challenge response
Jun. 28th, 2005 12:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chanter1944Cross-posted between here and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
writers_choice, here I go again.
Reasons Why
Author: Chanter
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Pairing: Daniel-Janet
Rating: G pretty sure
Summary: Janet’s POV. In the end, it’s the little things.
Dedicated to Steph and Marisa, because they snickered
221 words--I’m uneven again
It’s the little things in the end.
It’s the looks thrown when I’m rumpled and draggled and have dark circles under my eyes, the glances after thirty-six hours on a shift, after a mission’s gone sour, after a triumph or a tragedy--it’s the expressions that tell me he still thinks I’m beautiful. It’s the way he looks at me.
It’s the tone of his voice, on the other end of a telephone when I’m tangled in charts and he’s tangled in translations, from the kitchen or the doorway or the top of the staircase when I’m the last one home, from just behind me when I’m exhausted and watching over everyone but myself and I don’t even notice that my hands are shaking. It’s the way he says my name.
It’s the acts of kindness, the door held open even when I’m flying past him and can’t afford a glance back, the phrase scribbled in Latin at the bottom of a note from Cassie letting me know that he’s been there , seen that, the single white rose in with the clutter on my desk, on the front seat of my car, handed to me along with the house key. It’s what he does. It’s the random things. It’s the little things.
Beyond anything else, they’re why I adore him.
writers_choice, here I go again. Reasons Why
Author: Chanter
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Pairing: Daniel-Janet
Rating: G pretty sure
Summary: Janet’s POV. In the end, it’s the little things.
Dedicated to Steph and Marisa, because they snickered
221 words--I’m uneven again
It’s the little things in the end.
It’s the looks thrown when I’m rumpled and draggled and have dark circles under my eyes, the glances after thirty-six hours on a shift, after a mission’s gone sour, after a triumph or a tragedy--it’s the expressions that tell me he still thinks I’m beautiful. It’s the way he looks at me.
It’s the tone of his voice, on the other end of a telephone when I’m tangled in charts and he’s tangled in translations, from the kitchen or the doorway or the top of the staircase when I’m the last one home, from just behind me when I’m exhausted and watching over everyone but myself and I don’t even notice that my hands are shaking. It’s the way he says my name.
It’s the acts of kindness, the door held open even when I’m flying past him and can’t afford a glance back, the phrase scribbled in Latin at the bottom of a note from Cassie letting me know that he’s been there , seen that, the single white rose in with the clutter on my desk, on the front seat of my car, handed to me along with the house key. It’s what he does. It’s the random things. It’s the little things.
Beyond anything else, they’re why I adore him.
