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When she had first learned to read English it had been with newspapers, a father-daughter daily ritual that had continued, in one way or another, until her father had died in a car accident when she was twelve. When she was first starting to learn she would sit on her father�s lap in the evenings and her chubby fingers would slide over the pages as her lips and tongue fumbled over words and her father�s gentle encouragement backed her up, continuous and unwavering in his belief that she could do anything she set her mind to�he never gave her the answers, just his support, knowing that since she had been born Elizabeth Weir had been the type who needed to get to the bottom of something by herself and who did not take kindly to those who tried to do something for her. Later she would sit across from her father, sometimes with a newspaper, other times with a book or magazine, and they would both sit and read together, sometimes silently, other times aloud, neither one hesitant to point out something that they were reading that they thought the other would be interested in. After her father died Elizabeth had continued curling up in her usual chair, newspaper or book in hand, and she would read, usually silently, though occasionally aloud, especially when she came across something she thought her father would be interested in. At least until her mother�s job began demanding too much of her time and Elizabeth found herself attending a boarding school in Switzerland, living out a slightly twisted clich� as her mother met and married the epitome of evil stepfathers who had insisted that Elizabeth�s mother leave her job but that Elizabeth stay in Switzerland for her schooling.
Once she reached the sports section Elizabeth refolded the newspaper neatly and tucked it into an outside pocket of her briefcase. Despite the numerous times she had watched John�s football tape with him, and despite her mild passing interest in sports in general, Elizabeth was not a fan and rarely, if ever, read the sports section. Occasionally, when it was raining outside and she had a day off from whatever job she had at that time, she would sit down with a cup of coffee and read a paper cover to cover, but, even before she was brought into the SGC, days like that had been few and far between.
�So� how long does it usually take to fix a� whatever is wrong with that thing?� Elizabeth asked, glancing over Jack�s shoulder, her eyes zeroing in on the transport plane beyond the windows of the waiting area and down the tarmac. She had never been overly fond of getting places by military transport, though she spent a great many hours on them when a diplomatic mission led her to a place where commercial flights just didn�t go, or when the risk factor for a private plane was too high and a military escort was necessary.
�It varies, but it shouldn�t be much longer,� Jack said. �Eager to get away from here?� he inquired.
�The sooner we get to DC the sooner we can get the insanely long list of meetings we have waiting for us and the sooner I can get back to my people and my city,� Elizabeth said. She smiled softly. �Being back� feels weird. Everything is just so different� even the little things that you don�t notice day-to-day until they aren�t there anymore. The bad coffee in the mess, the automatic lights, the bickering scientists, the salt air� but I miss the ocean most.�
Jack smiled. �Got used to the waves at night, huh?�
�I�ve never needed sounds to sleep before, but now I can�t seem to shut down without the ocean lulling me to sleep,� Elizabeth admitted.
�Bet being locked in a mountain where it is never quiet hasn�t helped,� Jack said, offering up a sympathetic smile.