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waldos_writingsTitle: Motherly Advice - Chapter 1: It's Cold Outside; Wear a Sweater.
Rating: PG
Length: 516
Summary: In "Chinatown" G tells Sam, "You're my partner, not my mother," but that doesn't stop Sam from giving Motherly Advice.
This is Five Times Sam gave G Motherly Advice - And G didn't follow it.
Written for: NCISDaily Prompt #6 - sweater
Notes: This will eventually be a series of vignettes as we get to the appropriate days in the NCISDaily challenge.
Sam had a theory. He'd been working on it for a little while and tonight he was going to test it. He waited for G to start griping about it being a little under fifty degrees and being caught in just his t-shirt with an oxford over it, which he didn't even bother buttoning.
"I told you to grab a sweater."
"I told you, you're not my mother," G snapped back.
"No, I'm the guy who has to sit here and listen to you bitch about how cold it is tonight." Like G hadn't spent most of his life in L.A. Like he didn't know that December nights, even in California got a little chilly. Sam wondered, idly, how G survived eighteen months in Russia on Gibbs's team and various other Baltic postings.
<{*}>
G was staring out the window now, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. Sam suspected he knew what G wanted, but this time G was going to have to ask.
He grabbed the bag of candy from the pocket of his seatback. He pulled the wrapper off a Tootsie-pop, handed the candy to G and began flattening the wrapper against the steering wheel. In the dim light from the streetlamp about twenty yards down the block, the dark brown wrapper looked black and white. Between that and G's complaint about it being "like the Antarctic", Sam began folding a paper penguin. He had his leather jacket, so he was fine. He could wait G out.
When the penguin was done he set it down on the dashboard across from G. "He's not cold."
"He's a penguin," G countered. "He has something like million feathers per square inch."
"Still, I'll bet if he was told to wear a sweater, he'd listen." Sam had to laugh at the mental image of a penguin in a cardigan.
G sighed, and Sam knew he'd won the patience game once again. "I don't suppose you have that gray hoodie in your trunk any more?"
Sam pulled the key out of the ignition and handed it over to G. "Of course I do. I'm about to write your name on the tag, since you seem to be the only one who wears it anymore, because you never remember your own."
<{*}>
G took the key, hopped out of the car and opened the trunk and rummaged around until he found the sweatshirt. It was several sizes to big for him, and despite Sam's protestation that G was the only one who wore it any more, it still smelled of something uniquely 'Sam'.
G shrugged into it, got back into the car and jammed his hands into the front pockets. "Thank you."
"You could have asked half-an-hour ago," Sam told him.
G just shrugged and went back to watching the suspect's dark house. He suspected Sam knew that he'd never do that. Asking would be too much like admitting that he liked borrowing Sam's sweatshirt just because it was Sam's. After all, only an idiot would leave for a stake-out in forty-seven degree weather without a sweater.
Rating: PG
Length: 516
Summary: In "Chinatown" G tells Sam, "You're my partner, not my mother," but that doesn't stop Sam from giving Motherly Advice.
This is Five Times Sam gave G Motherly Advice - And G didn't follow it.
Written for: NCISDaily Prompt #6 - sweater
Notes: This will eventually be a series of vignettes as we get to the appropriate days in the NCISDaily challenge.
Sam had a theory. He'd been working on it for a little while and tonight he was going to test it. He waited for G to start griping about it being a little under fifty degrees and being caught in just his t-shirt with an oxford over it, which he didn't even bother buttoning.
"I told you to grab a sweater."
"I told you, you're not my mother," G snapped back.
"No, I'm the guy who has to sit here and listen to you bitch about how cold it is tonight." Like G hadn't spent most of his life in L.A. Like he didn't know that December nights, even in California got a little chilly. Sam wondered, idly, how G survived eighteen months in Russia on Gibbs's team and various other Baltic postings.
G was staring out the window now, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. Sam suspected he knew what G wanted, but this time G was going to have to ask.
He grabbed the bag of candy from the pocket of his seatback. He pulled the wrapper off a Tootsie-pop, handed the candy to G and began flattening the wrapper against the steering wheel. In the dim light from the streetlamp about twenty yards down the block, the dark brown wrapper looked black and white. Between that and G's complaint about it being "like the Antarctic", Sam began folding a paper penguin. He had his leather jacket, so he was fine. He could wait G out.
When the penguin was done he set it down on the dashboard across from G. "He's not cold."
"He's a penguin," G countered. "He has something like million feathers per square inch."
"Still, I'll bet if he was told to wear a sweater, he'd listen." Sam had to laugh at the mental image of a penguin in a cardigan.
G sighed, and Sam knew he'd won the patience game once again. "I don't suppose you have that gray hoodie in your trunk any more?"
Sam pulled the key out of the ignition and handed it over to G. "Of course I do. I'm about to write your name on the tag, since you seem to be the only one who wears it anymore, because you never remember your own."
G took the key, hopped out of the car and opened the trunk and rummaged around until he found the sweatshirt. It was several sizes to big for him, and despite Sam's protestation that G was the only one who wore it any more, it still smelled of something uniquely 'Sam'.
G shrugged into it, got back into the car and jammed his hands into the front pockets. "Thank you."
"You could have asked half-an-hour ago," Sam told him.
G just shrugged and went back to watching the suspect's dark house. He suspected Sam knew that he'd never do that. Asking would be too much like admitting that he liked borrowing Sam's sweatshirt just because it was Sam's. After all, only an idiot would leave for a stake-out in forty-seven degree weather without a sweater.
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Date: 2010-03-07 04:31 pm (UTC)