badly_knitted (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
badly_knitted) wrote2024-12-29 04:35 pm
badly_knitted) wrote2024-12-29 04:35 pm
Entry tags:
Stargate SG-1 Double Drabble: Bad Art
Title: Bad Art
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Daniel, Sha-re.
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Setting: Pre-Series.
Summary: Daniel and Sha-re have so much to learn from each other.
Written For: Challenge 459: Amnesty 76 at
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fan_flashworks, using Challenge 11: Self-Portrait.Disclaimer: I don’t own Stargate SG-1, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble and a half, 250 words.
“What do you draw, my Daniel?” Shar-re comes to sit beside Daniel on the smooth blocks of tumbled stone, coated with a layer of sand from the sandstorm that passed during the night.
Turning, finger still poised where he was tracing lines in the shallow layer, Daniel smiles at his wife. “Self-portrait,” he says, his smile widening at the look of confusion on Sha-re’s lovely face as she frowns at him, then at the marks in the sand.
“Portrait? I do not understand.”
“It’s supposed to be a picture of me, my face. See, there’s my mouth, my nose, and my glasses. Haven’t got to my hair yet.” He looks back at his work of very definitely NOT art. He can draw artefacts, copy hieroglyphs, document archaeological finds, but he sucks at drawing people. “I know, it’s terrible. Guess I’ll never be an artist.”
“What is… artist?” Sha-re is constantly wanting to learn more of her husband’s language, and she soaks up new words like a sponge.
“An artist is someone who makes a living by making pictures. It’s not a very good living though. I’d probably starve.”
“I will not let you starve. Come, my Daniel. It is time to eat, soon. There is corn to grind and goats to milk.”
“I’m not good at milking either.”
Sha-re laughs. “You are very bad milking, my Daniel. Children are better, but to learn you must do. Come.” She holds out her hand and Daniel takes it. He’d follow her anywhere.
The End
Turning, finger still poised where he was tracing lines in the shallow layer, Daniel smiles at his wife. “Self-portrait,” he says, his smile widening at the look of confusion on Sha-re’s lovely face as she frowns at him, then at the marks in the sand.
“Portrait? I do not understand.”
“It’s supposed to be a picture of me, my face. See, there’s my mouth, my nose, and my glasses. Haven’t got to my hair yet.” He looks back at his work of very definitely NOT art. He can draw artefacts, copy hieroglyphs, document archaeological finds, but he sucks at drawing people. “I know, it’s terrible. Guess I’ll never be an artist.”
“What is… artist?” Sha-re is constantly wanting to learn more of her husband’s language, and she soaks up new words like a sponge.
“An artist is someone who makes a living by making pictures. It’s not a very good living though. I’d probably starve.”
“I will not let you starve. Come, my Daniel. It is time to eat, soon. There is corn to grind and goats to milk.”
“I’m not good at milking either.”
Sha-re laughs. “You are very bad milking, my Daniel. Children are better, but to learn you must do. Come.” She holds out her hand and Daniel takes it. He’d follow her anywhere.
The End