DISCLAIMER: Yeah, the SG-1 guys are all property of MGM, World 
Gekko Corp and Double Secret productions. This is all in fun, no 
infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. All other 
characters, ideas, etc., herein are copyrighted to the author.
TITLE:  SOMETHING LIKE HOME
ARCHIVE: With my persmission.
AUTHOR: Rowan Darkstar
EMAIL: rowan_d1@yahoo.com
WEBSITE: www.beautyinshadows.net
RATING: Teen
CATEGORIES: Angst, Sam/Jolinar/Martouf
SUMMARY: "Amid this mass of hosts, her sense of symbioted tingles 
like static beneath her skin."


Written for the GateShip Wednesday Shorts "Allegiance" Challenge.
 286wds.

Thanks to annaK for (reading over my shoulder and pointing)t he 
quick beta.:)

"Something Like Home"
by 
Rowan Darkstar
copyright (c) 2006

The familiarity is distracting, almost dizzying.  The cadence of 
their voices, the rhythm of their speech, the soft swish of their 
clothing and the mannered grip upon their eating utensils.  She 
knows these people, their pasts, their loves, their joys, their 
fears; she has never lived with them.

Amid this mass of hosts, her sense of symbiotes tingles like 
static beneath her skin.

She can lock the memories away when she's on Earth.  (On the good 
days.)  She has learned separation in the recent times.  But 
here, on this foreign ground, in the midst of the others, she is 
afraid if someone calls out "Jolinar" -- she might reply.

There is work to be done.  Innocents to guard, negotiations to 
mediate, wires to be connected, and technology to be analyzed.  
All of this keeps her in Sam Carter's life, her lab, her 
identity; sensitive to the numbers that flicker and curl around 
every star she sets her gaze upon.

The weight and cold metal of her weapon keep her grounded, and 
she clings to the grip with practiced discipline.

There is work to be done.

So, when the light whisper of rain trickles through the forest's 
leaves, pattering on the stiff cloth of her BDUs and dancing 
patterns across her exposed skin--she's not feeling Martouf 
laughing against her throat in the wash of a summer storm.  She's 
not hearing the distant rumble and crack of explosives and 
closing her eyes against his chest as they wait out the battle in 
the dimness of their crystal cave.

She's not feeling his lips on her mouth and the taste of 
oliveh'nai candies imported from Ga'jun.

She's not longing to touch what once meant home.

She's not.

*****

rowan_d1@yahoo.com