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beanpot and the Thirty Characters Meme I tried to do a million years ago! She requested: Emily Gilmore and Teal'c, I prefer Beethoven to Mozart. This probably isn't quite what you imagined. Lol.
Author: Annerb
Title: Flight of the Brochures
Summary: Emily Gilmore has a close encounter of the Chulakian kind.
Categorization: Gilmore Girls/Stargate SG-1 Crossover, gen
Warnings: None
Flight of the Brochures
Emily Gilmore is in Washington DC for a Daughters of the American Revolution national summit meeting because she’s seen what they laughably call their brochures (as if an organization—an institution—like the Daughters of the American Revolution need advertise themselves like a road kill lawyer looking for idiots to represent). Clearly the leadership needs to be reminded just what is expected of the women who are the backbone of this nation.
Brochures, for goodness’ sake! They might as well hang some crepe paper, wear party hats, and call themselves a bridge club.
Striding down the sidewalk towards Constitution Hall, Emily Gilmore prides herself on not having to slow her step as people jump out of her way. Clearly this is a city that understands importance when it sees it.
Only then she’s bumped from behind, almost stumbling into oncoming traffic—is she to be flattened by a Washington motorcade, of all things?
“Well, I never--,” she starts to bluster even as her life flashes before her eyes (Richard pinning her sweater, his fingers warm and the tiniest bit sweaty as they fumble with the fabric—Lorelai with cake in her hair and the devil in her eyes—Rory in her school girl blues, face lit with passion and curiosity).
Strong arms catch her, pull her into safety and Emily spins about to give her would-be murderer a piece of her mind, only to keep looking up, up, up, up…
The culprit is perhaps the largest black man she has ever set eyes upon. Surely it isn’t decent for a man to have shoulders quite that wide. She’s getting a crick in her neck trying to take him all in at once.
“I apologize most sincerely,” the man says, a low, cultured voice that seems to force calm down her spine despite her best intentions of being annoyed. There is the slight smoky edge of an accent, and she lets herself imagine that he is some African diplomat. She’s almost been thrown into traffic by the distant son of an exiled Christian prince, like something out of those emails she gets sometimes from Nigeria that Lorelai is always replying to with nonsense and offers to sleep in their spare bedroom.
“It’s quite all right,” she finds herself saying even though it is clearly not all right.
“Are you injured?” he asks, and it is only then she realizes he has one enormous arm braced across her back, her body tucked indecently close to his.
She’s finding it a bit hard to breathe, truth be told.
Emily shakes her head. Clearly her near-death experience has muddled her mind. Brochures! she reminds herself.
She slaps away his hand, straightening her suit. It will be wrinkled beyond redemption. “Of course I’m injured! You nearly tossed me headfirst into a Cadillac, for God’s sake.” She at least deserves to die by Maserati, something nice and foreign. She has standards, after all.
He takes a step away, but remains a giant bulwark between her and the rest of the bustling crowds on the sidewalk. He’s a bit like a mountain, standing there over her. “I regret that I was moving too quickly to adequately gauge my surroundings,” he says.
He looks a little confounded, now that she thinks on it. Like he isn’t used to all the foreigners. She’s annoyed to feel her anger waning again. He’s a very long way from Nigeria.
“Do you require medical attention?” he asks.
“No, no,” she says, waving him away. It’s just a simple headache, after all. One that would no doubt improve quickly if not for the screeching noise currently issuing from a bench a few feet away.
She glares at the hooligan and his ratty violin as he absolutely murders Mozart. “Really,” she huffs. In this, their nation’s capital? It is almost too much to be born.
Her companion follows her gaze, inclining his head as if agreeing with her pronouncement. “I too prefer Beethoven to Mozart,” he intones.
“You do?” she blurts. (And Emily Gilmore never blurts. It’s undignified. Maybe she is dying after all.)
“Do you not?” he rejoinders, one eyebrow climbing calmly upwards as if only a total fool would disagree.
Emily Gilmore is no fool.
She sniffs delicately, pulling at her cuffs. Slipping her arm into the crook of the man’s elbow, she says, “You will walk me to the Hall. It’s the least you can do.” She may still faint, after all. Or become disoriented.
He inclines his head with just the proper amount of gravity due the situation. “It would be my honor.”
A perfect gentleman, she thinks.
“So, tell me,” she says, eying the way the people on the sidewalk automatically make room for them as they approach. “Do you have brochures in Nigeria?”
.fin.
beanpot and the Thirty Characters Meme I tried to do a million years ago! She requested: Emily Gilmore and Teal'c, I prefer Beethoven to Mozart. This probably isn't quite what you imagined. Lol.Author: Annerb
Title: Flight of the Brochures
Summary: Emily Gilmore has a close encounter of the Chulakian kind.
Categorization: Gilmore Girls/Stargate SG-1 Crossover, gen
Warnings: None
Flight of the Brochures
Emily Gilmore is in Washington DC for a Daughters of the American Revolution national summit meeting because she’s seen what they laughably call their brochures (as if an organization—an institution—like the Daughters of the American Revolution need advertise themselves like a road kill lawyer looking for idiots to represent). Clearly the leadership needs to be reminded just what is expected of the women who are the backbone of this nation.
Brochures, for goodness’ sake! They might as well hang some crepe paper, wear party hats, and call themselves a bridge club.
Striding down the sidewalk towards Constitution Hall, Emily Gilmore prides herself on not having to slow her step as people jump out of her way. Clearly this is a city that understands importance when it sees it.
Only then she’s bumped from behind, almost stumbling into oncoming traffic—is she to be flattened by a Washington motorcade, of all things?
“Well, I never--,” she starts to bluster even as her life flashes before her eyes (Richard pinning her sweater, his fingers warm and the tiniest bit sweaty as they fumble with the fabric—Lorelai with cake in her hair and the devil in her eyes—Rory in her school girl blues, face lit with passion and curiosity).
Strong arms catch her, pull her into safety and Emily spins about to give her would-be murderer a piece of her mind, only to keep looking up, up, up, up…
The culprit is perhaps the largest black man she has ever set eyes upon. Surely it isn’t decent for a man to have shoulders quite that wide. She’s getting a crick in her neck trying to take him all in at once.
“I apologize most sincerely,” the man says, a low, cultured voice that seems to force calm down her spine despite her best intentions of being annoyed. There is the slight smoky edge of an accent, and she lets herself imagine that he is some African diplomat. She’s almost been thrown into traffic by the distant son of an exiled Christian prince, like something out of those emails she gets sometimes from Nigeria that Lorelai is always replying to with nonsense and offers to sleep in their spare bedroom.
“It’s quite all right,” she finds herself saying even though it is clearly not all right.
“Are you injured?” he asks, and it is only then she realizes he has one enormous arm braced across her back, her body tucked indecently close to his.
She’s finding it a bit hard to breathe, truth be told.
Emily shakes her head. Clearly her near-death experience has muddled her mind. Brochures! she reminds herself.
She slaps away his hand, straightening her suit. It will be wrinkled beyond redemption. “Of course I’m injured! You nearly tossed me headfirst into a Cadillac, for God’s sake.” She at least deserves to die by Maserati, something nice and foreign. She has standards, after all.
He takes a step away, but remains a giant bulwark between her and the rest of the bustling crowds on the sidewalk. He’s a bit like a mountain, standing there over her. “I regret that I was moving too quickly to adequately gauge my surroundings,” he says.
He looks a little confounded, now that she thinks on it. Like he isn’t used to all the foreigners. She’s annoyed to feel her anger waning again. He’s a very long way from Nigeria.
“Do you require medical attention?” he asks.
“No, no,” she says, waving him away. It’s just a simple headache, after all. One that would no doubt improve quickly if not for the screeching noise currently issuing from a bench a few feet away.
She glares at the hooligan and his ratty violin as he absolutely murders Mozart. “Really,” she huffs. In this, their nation’s capital? It is almost too much to be born.
Her companion follows her gaze, inclining his head as if agreeing with her pronouncement. “I too prefer Beethoven to Mozart,” he intones.
“You do?” she blurts. (And Emily Gilmore never blurts. It’s undignified. Maybe she is dying after all.)
“Do you not?” he rejoinders, one eyebrow climbing calmly upwards as if only a total fool would disagree.
Emily Gilmore is no fool.
She sniffs delicately, pulling at her cuffs. Slipping her arm into the crook of the man’s elbow, she says, “You will walk me to the Hall. It’s the least you can do.” She may still faint, after all. Or become disoriented.
He inclines his head with just the proper amount of gravity due the situation. “It would be my honor.”
A perfect gentleman, she thinks.
“So, tell me,” she says, eying the way the people on the sidewalk automatically make room for them as they approach. “Do you have brochures in Nigeria?”
.fin.
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