Author: Jeanine
Category: Sam/Daniel,Meaningless fluff.
Disclaimer: Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended
Archive: My own site, The Band Gazebo (www.oocities.org/helsinkibaby), Heliopolis, Stargate Saga, anywhere else, please ask.
Season: No specific one.
Spoilers: Nope!
Summary: Summary? For this? It's meaningless Sam POV fluff, and the title says it all.
Author's Notes: Having spent so long wrestling with The Ties That Bind and promptly having been slapped with a plot bunny for a sequel (I love you too Adi) this crawled out of my brain as a protest. Crawled might be overstating matters....oozed...whatever.....

I am not a morning person.

Actually, let me qualify that. I have no problem with rising early. I can do it. The alarm goes off at some ungodly hour, before the birds have gone to sleep, never mind woken up for the dawn chorus, and in one smooth movement, I roll over, knock it off, and roll out of bed. I'm on my feet and halfway to the shower before I've even consciously opened my eyes, and by the time I'm in the car on my way to work, I'm ready to face the day.

This is a habit instilled in me by years of living with my father, years of Air Force training, combat training and practice, and working long hours in the Pentagon, trying to make the Stargate Program a reality.

I can get up early in the morning.

As for do I like getting up early in the morning? Well now, that's an entirely different question. Given the choice between my usual routine as described above and shutting off the alarm only to roll back over and vanish into slumber for another three or four hours, I'll take the latter any day of the week. Even better if I don't have to set the alarm at all, and can just sleep uninterrupted through the morning, until my body decides it's rested enough to get up. Then I can stumble into the kitchen at my leisure, make some breakfast, potter around until I'm fully awake, which on days like that, takes a while.

When I was a teenager, my sleeping habits used to drive my dad crazy. He would tell me that it was a sin to waste the day in bed, that by the time I got up the day was gone, and that I should get an early night every once in a while. He quickly realised that it didn't matter if I got an early night or not, I would still sleep just as late the next day. Especially if I knew that he had some lovely chore in store for me.

When I joined the Air Force, he thought that that'd cure me of my bad sleeping habits. What it actually forced me to do was appreciate my rare late mornings even more than I previously had. Especially now, where on any given night I can be sleeping on a different planet, in a sleeping bag and tent, where my feather pillow and down comforter are but sweet memories. Where I'm woken by the voices of Colonel O'Neill and Daniel arguing about God-knows-what-the-issue-is-this-week and have been lulled, if you can call it that, to sleep by the same. Where I wake up quickly, wishing for more sleep and just hoping like hell that someone hasn't taken the last of the coffee, because not much else is going to get me started in the mornings.

Like I said, I'm not a morning person.

So, a couple of months ago when I was woken up by Daniel's voice, I did what I usually do. I turned over, pretending to be still asleep, stealing a few precious minutes to collect myself. It was only when I turned over that I realised that I was burying my face in a pillow, and that I'd unconsciously pulled a wonderfully soft, warm quilt with me. And while the soft furnishings were undeniably welcome, I didn't need to open my eyes to know that they weren't mine. And when there was movement under the covers beside me, when I felt another warm body move against mine, the only thought in my mind was please don't let me be dreaming. Please let last night have really happened. The sensation of a pair of lips brushing over my shoulder was real enough to tell me that I wasn't dreaming, and I moved my head to let him know that I was awake. Opening my eyes, I was greeted by a warm smile, sparkling blue eyes, and I felt myself smile sleepily.

"You woke me up," I mumbled.

OK, so it wasn't the most articulate thing I've ever said - not a morning person, remember? But it made him smile, it made him laugh, and he pretended to be offended. "Well, if that's the way you feel…" He made to move away from me, but I wasn't having that, not a bit of it. I grabbed him by the arms and pulled him towards me, and we spent the next few hours revisiting places we had visited the previous night.

That morning's events have been repeated several times over the past couple of months. Sometimes it happens just like that, either at his apartment or my house. We split our time pretty evenly between the two places, although we're talking about consolidating the two households, sooner rather than later. Sometimes, it's different though.

Sometimes, it's not his voice that wakes me. Not his speaking voice anyway. Did you know that our Doctor Daniel Jackson sings in the shower? And he's got quite a nice voice, even if I am biased. He changes the song from day to day, it's usually whatever he last heard on the radio the day before, or maybe something from whatever we were looking at on the television before we went to bed. And on mornings like that, I usually just lie there, listening to him sing, letting his voice bring me back into the world, letting him set me up for the day. And on mornings like that, he'll come back out into the bedroom, hair still wet from the shower and sticking up everywhere, towel slung around his waist, droplets of water still on his chest, and he'll stop and smile when he sees me looking at him. He usually says something, maybe something silly to make me laugh, or something romantic, or maybe some ordinary banal thing about a mission. But, and I'm not ashamed to admit it, I never let him speak for too long. There are far more interesting things to do with Daniel Jackson when he's in that state of dishabille.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. One such example being the time last week when I woke up to the sound of him singing "The Way You Look Tonight." I was out of bed and halfway across the room before I'd even opened my eyes, and by the time I was aware of what I was doing, I was kissing him in the shower, the water running over our bodies.

And sometimes, it's the touch of his hand that wakes me, and I'll stir only to see him sitting, fully clothed, on the bed beside me. He'll point to the locker beside my bed, and there'll be a tray there, with breakfast on it. Usually just cereal and orange juice, sometimes with a flower if he can manage it. He brought me coffee once, but by the time I finished thanking him for being so thoughtful, the coffee was cold. He's tried to bring me a cooked breakfast too, but the same thing happened so we don't bother any more.

And then there are the times when I wake up alone. I don't like that much; I'm always afraid for a moment, afraid that he's come to his senses; that he's left. Then I become aware of noises down the hall, the muffled sound of him moving about, maybe the muted sounds of the television or radio. So I throw on some clothes and make my way down to him. Sometimes he's sitting on the couch, watching who knows what on television. Or he'll be cleaning up the remnants of last night's dinner, up to his arms in soapy water in the kitchen. Or sitting at the kitchen table, reading reports. Or just standing there, deliciously first-thing-in-the-morning rumpled, cup of coffee in his hand, sipping it silently, only to smile when he sees me coming. Our eyes meet and we share a good morning with no words before he turns and hands me a cup of coffee, and we sit down, or we stand side by side and we drink together before we get ready to face the day, which doesn't look so hard once he's beside me.

I never was a morning person. But I think I'm changing my mind.