Daniel's Hands

The title says it all. Drama/Romance. Sam/Daniel.

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I'm just borrowing. There is no profit involved, unfortunately.

Daniel dropped his pen and slowly stretched. Absentmindedly, he examined his hands, one a little cramped from long hours of note-taking.

His thoughts wandered. Those hands had gestured in frustration short years before, while "on the outs" with academia, more recently with fervor among the other ascended to please, for the sake of millions, intervene. They gestured a lot, almost of their own accord, though there was not a bit of Italian in him.

He had used those hands -- methodically and carefully – as a tool to smooth ruffled feathers, broker treaties, complete a deal. He knew their power, and the power of accompanying words fitly spoken. He strove to be a man of peace, and his hands served him well that way.

They were wrapped, now, around a coffee mug, feeling the welcome warmth radiating from within.

Those hands, of necessity and when circumstances required, had taken many a life. It went with the territory, but it was not their highest purpose, and not one upon which he cared to dwell.

Daniel preferred instead to think of their noble deeds. Like the two momentous occasions when, gloved, they had brought forth a baby, gently swathing him in something warm before delivering him up onto his mom's belly. A little hesitant at first, they had nevertheless done his bidding and accomplished that which was necessary.

That one of the babies was Sha'ra's reminded him, still a little painfully, of her, of the times his tear-streaked face found temporary refuge in his hands. Of the fist that often hit the open palm, that sought pain to relieve the pain within. Of the hand that, when he had the strength to forgive, momentarily rested on Teal'c's shoulder.

His work. Oh, yes, his work. How many times had those hands held, so carefully, a priceless artifact, or his fingers sweep across the embossed symbols of an ancient dialect? His work was a driving force in his life, though as an archeologist and linguist he did not always feel respected in quite the way he would have liked. Still, he was an integral part of SG-1, and he derived great satisfaction from that fact.

That his work was also the means by which someone special had come into his life, was "frosting on the cake," or, more appropriately, blue Jello in a dish. He chuckled a bit at that thought.

Daniel, abandoning his musings, was startled to see Sam standing in the doorway, an amused smile playing at the corners of her lips. The woman he loved walked over and pressed those lips to his cheek, then lightly settled her hands on his shoulders. He reached up and stroked them, feeling the silky skin. "Someone needs some hand cream," she hinted, her soft, sweet breath whispering in his ear.

He thought of the time later that evening when he would be alone with Sam...his Sam. "Sure, Babe."