december 2006
http://cakehole.org/zedpm
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The thing about the Goa'uld was that they always showed up exactly when you didn't want them—not that you ever did want them around, but there were times when things were slow and you half expected an armored Jaffa to jump out from behind a bush somewhere and zat you into oblivion, or times when the Ori went on holiday and you ended up bargaining for Miracle Wheat somewhere on some planet with a significant lack of tourist attractions—but there were times you had a lot of other things on your hands and you really, really didn't want to see them at all.
Like now, for instance. SG-1 had been following up on one of Vala's contacts who—surprise, surprise—had turned out to be a spy, not for the Lucian Alliance as they'd first thought, but for the Goa'uld Anaideia, and all of a sudden the situation became a lot more complicated, and everything had gone straight to hell.
"You know, I'd never thought I'd say this," said Daniel, "but I kind of miss this."
Mitchell, who'd been testing the lock on the door by hitting it with his fist, craned his neck to shoot Daniel an incredulous look. "Shut up, Jackson, nobody cares." Daniel took this in stride, and remained sitting calmly on the dirt as the rest of the team moved methodically around the perimeter.
The Jaffa—and damn, they'd been even meaner than most other Jaffa they'd encountered—had taken their boots, jackets, and even their pants; weirdly enough, they all seemed to be functioning normally with this distinct lack of clothing (though Vala seemed to be enjoying this mutual pantlessness, and had been caught upon several occasions ogling Teal'c's rather impressive derierre). The big man himself was meditating, Carter was (supposedly) coming up with some brilliant plan to break them out of this sorry excuse for a jail cell, and all Mitchell could do was wait for something to happen.
Unfortunately, this meant sitting on the ground and entertaining the remainder of SG-1.
"But as I was saying," Daniel continued, as if Mitchell hadn't shushed him ten minutes ago. Vala looked at Daniel and pouted, but he continued undaunted with more of his patented pseudo-scien-psycho-lectual babble. "What I was saying was that in prisons like these, there's always a way out. We know what the Ori want. The Goa'uld generally have short-term plans, and if we come up with a way to let them think they got what they want, they'll let us go."
"Or," Carter interjected, straining from exertion on the bars, "they'll implant us with symbiotes, torture us for information, and then kill us."
Daniel frowned. "That's really not fair, Sam. I was making a generalization."
"Then generalize us the hell out of here," Mitchell said. He looked to Carter for help; getting a shake of the head in return, he put his head in his hands and muttered, "There's no place like Cheyenne Mountain, there's no place like Cheyenne Mountain."
For a few moments all they heard was the small chorus of Carter's (unsuccessful) efforts to shatter the locking mechanism of the door, and then Vala jumped up, raised her hand in the air, and chimed, "I know!" Everyone, including the listless Daniel, leveled a blank stare on Vala, who was wearing Grin #8, the one that meant I've-got-an-idea-that-will-almost-certai
"Let's play a game," Vala gushed, seemingly oblivious to her teammates' indifference. "Let's take one of these rocks, and spin it around, and whoever it lands on has to—"
"NO!"
"For Christ's sakes, shut up!" hissed Mitchell. He rushed to the bars and looked around the area, scanning for any Jaffa who may have heard the communal outburst; finding none, he let out a deep sigh. Moving back towards the group, he said, "We need to be quiet, guys. Any luck, Sam?"
Carter shook her head again. "None yet, sorry."
"Okay." Mitchell closed his eyes and counted to ten, praying to whatever god (or false god) was out there to give him patience, serenity, and the self-control not to kill his teammates. He could probably explain it away if he "accidentally" dispatched Vala, and Daniel died too many times for much of the SGC to care, but Mitchell didn't think it would look great in his evaluation. Teal'c probably wouldn't bat an eye at Vala's unfortunate demise, but he would probably break Mitchell's arms off if he even looked as if he was going to commit some dastardly act of violence towards Daniel.
Mitchell clapped his hands. "Vala." She looked up at him, eyes wide, and Mitchell found himself surprisingly amused at Vala's eagerness. "You wanted to play a game, let's play a game."
"Oh, no," said Daniel, as Vala practically exploded from glee, "please don't humor her."
Mitchell smirked at the hapless archaelogist. "Just for that, Jackson, you get to go first. What do you want for Christmas?" The holiday was about two hours away by his estimation, though knowing their luck, SG-1'd be stuck here while his folks gorged themselves on pie and danced the night away at St. Hilda's; Mitchell wished he was back in Kansas instead of here, playing Mom to a bunch of adults (and an alien) who were, really, less mature than toddlers.
"I don't want anything," Daniel replied. "Next." Vala looked a bit crestfallen at Daniel's lack of enthusiasm, and Daniel rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine, I want a pony."
"I want a pony, too!" exclaimed Vala. "Or maybe one of those plastic things that you see on television, where you can fold things up into neat little bags—I would think it would be useful to have somewhere you can store your clothes in—or maybe one of those racks of knives, they are oh so very pretty—" she caught Mitchell's expression and amended, smiling innocently—"but of course I'd never do anything with the knives except maybe sell them."
"Good for you, Vala. Teal'c?"
Teal'c's voice rumbled up from the corner of the cell. "I would not find it displeasing to receive a Nintendo Wii."
"Ah," Mitchell said approvingly. "Sam, what do you want for Christmas?"
Carter's arms were almost completely shoved through the bars, and she could only speak over her shoulder. "I don't know, Cam," she said, "but right now, I'd kill for a pencil."
"Like this?" Vala asked, and everyone stared at her for the second time in the last half hour—or, more accurately, at the pencil she was now miraculously holding in her left hand.
"Like that," Carter said, her face glowing as she took it. The team stood as she returned to her previous position, wriggling the pencil in the lock, until the heavy door sprung open with a faint creak. "Thanks, Vala."
Vala grinned (#15: the I'm-so-awesome-that-I-don't-need-your-undying-gratitude grin). "Don't you want to know where I—"
"Nobody does, Vala," Mitchell interrupted as he grabbed her by the elbow. "Say another word and I will leave you for dead." The team shuffled quietly out of the cell, reclaimed their weapons (and pants), took out three Jaffa and a badly-armed peasant, and were back on Earth in time for dinner.
("Really, Mitchell," Daniel said later around a mouthful of fruitcake, "that's not funny at all."
Mitchell reached out and stroked the pony's hair with his finger. "Don't hurt Tootie Tails' feelings," he cooed, and had the nerve to look annoyed when Grandma Mitchell wandered past, waving a wreath in the air and shouting, "GLORY HALLELUJAH!" at the top of her ninety-year-old lungs.)
