large hard-on collider

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 18:52:04 GMT

oh, yeah, addendum: so this happened to us the other day. no, we were stone cold sober. yeah, I know.

paging deepsix (and/or the psychiatric ward)

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 18:35:49 GMT

the following is an excerpt from the 10-page paper on ethics and professionalism that I have to turn in tomorrow morning, and which thus far consists of five pages of quotations and about two lines of actual commentary. bonus points for guessing at what point thissugarcane came into my room and started typing! oh wait, no.

"Theorists use the concept of role to describe the cultural expectations and obligations that arise in particular social contexts. According to sociologists such as Erving Goffman, the self does not exist outside of roles; we are always playing some part, such as parent, friend, employee, or advocate. On similar reasoning, some philosophers maintain that ethical decision making requires consideration of the functions appropriate to particular roles. Lawyers who maintain that their job is to defend, not judge, a client are asserting a claim of role-differentiated morality. Their implicit assumption is that zealous advocacy is appropriate even when it results in injustice in a particular case, because the advocacy role promotes justice in most cases." (52)

lol mikeyway txted, are u comin gto get me, ne?

Gerard looked at his phone. he thought to himself why does this kid not know how to spell? I'm in love with the scarecrow here, and then he smiled brilliantly, his skin shining in a patch of sunlight escaping the blinds. He hadn't noticed the sunrise again but now, now that mikeyway had come into his life, he had a reason to look forward to morning.

his mom yelled down the stairs, "get the fuck up out of bed, Gerard!"

a hundred years old, physically unable to sleep, and his immortal mom still yelled at him. Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose like he'd seen mikey do a hundred times. it always made him feel better when mikey did it, because it meant he was staring lovingly at mikey. this time it didn't help.

-

mikey stared out his window. where the fuck was gerard? they were going to miss math. gerard was awesome. math sucked.

-

gerard watched mikey out of the corner of his eye as they drove into school. why, when humans were so hard to read, why– when gerard could read every stupid teenager's mind at the whole school, on the whole planet, was the one skinny girl like boy a blank slate, a delicious mystery to him? what went on behind his dark gaze? what was mikeyway thinking about all the time? did he know? was gerard's family in danger? did mikeyway want to bone?

-

mikey stared out the car window. damn. it was fucking cloudy again. stupid washington.

A++++++++

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 03:59:35 GMT

Now is the time on sprockets where we talk about stuff what I have been watching on the television box!

Finished the second season of The Wire just before going to Philadelphia earlier this month. Tight, clever, well-paced, heartbreaking and hilarious by turns: all the things people have been telling me for five or six years and more. And self-contained enough that I can watch a couple of episodes or even a season and be satisfied to let it percolate a while, rather than feeling that desperate need to continue which so often comes with shows I get into. It's a good summer watch, I guess, well-suited to thunderstorm-sized chunks of Saturday afternoons and late nights before dropping off, easily worked around other committments. I brought S3 out here with me and will no doubt wind up plunging into it the ~~first day~~ next time it rains, or after I finish a paper or two.

Pictures from PA are forthcoming; they're nearly all from Centralia, so if that sort of thing floats your boat, etc. (True Dork Stories: I got an unhealthy amount of enjoyment from driving around countryside I'd extensively researched for that coal miner AU I never posted.) Mostly a really fab trip; my only regret is it wasn't longer, because I didn't have time to do everything I wanted or to see all the people I wanted to, like sinsense and alibi_factory. Just means I have to go back soon.

Oh yeah, I also regret spending TWO GD DAYS AT NEWARK AIRPORT. Let us never speak of it again.

Also saw Torchwood. Mostly -- I really, really enjoyed the first three episodes? And then I didn't get to watch the fourth and fifth (in their entirety, anyway -- I watched about half of 4 with i_phianassa's mother) for about a week, and although there were still things I loved, the ending felt really rushed and like quite a cheat, given the four-and-a-half episodes of tension rather skilfully built up to that point.

Also, and I'm ordinarily the absolute last person to give a flying expletive about such things, so it really has to be pretty blatant to get my back up -- man, was there ever a lot of Teyla-style failboat about Gwen's ~*delicate condition*~. Although man, I love Rhys so gd much there's little I won't forgive. So competent! So adorable!

And, I mean, Ianto. That kind of blew. I more or less knew it was coming, thanks to a long-ago flist spoiler/prediction coupled with the general atmosphere of D: the night it came out, but still. Where am I going to get my smirking, three-piece-suited, impeccable-Italian-loafer-wearing gaymo sasstalk now?

Still, without a doubt the tightest series they've done, and crossing lines I never expected them to cross. Frobisher's arc pretty much made the series for me. And MATTHEWS. Um, whatever his actual name is. Paul Copley? Adorable and talented.

Everyone needs some lulz after that. Right? Right. (PROTIP: pay close attention to the fifth one, starting around 1:37. "It can't possibly be," you'll say, hand to horrified mouth, just like I did. Spoilers: it so totally is.)

In related news, the new Doctor and his companion are BABIES, and, though adorable, make me feel uncomfortably freakin' old.

Oh also I saw HBP, freakin' finally. Diagnosis: good times! I guess some people thought it was boring or too long or whatevs but I was pretty much all there. It helps that I have zero fannish investment in HP anymore, so I can just go to the movies and be like "hey that was a fun afternoon, now let's have some sushi and think about other things" -- which is really, really nice, but there were still a lot of moments that had me biting my knuckles with glee, so. Looking forward to going again when the sister comes back from her weekend jaunt.

eta: ALSO last weekend thissugarcane and I semi-accidentally watched the first eight episodes of ReGenesis, which for ages I was somehow convinced was a spin-off of NUMB3RS, which I sort of hate for reasons too long and stupid to get into here. Short version: it isn't, and it is in fact surprisingly awesome. She's been watching the rest, and I burned myself the discs to bring out here and then left them at home, but I think I got the good bits. Probably not nearly as hilarious to people who aren't Canadian or possibly even from Toronto, but still some pretty enjoyable times with Peter Outerbridge, Deadbeat Dad; Ellen Page, Sass-Talking Teenager; and that dude with the shiny tracksuit who is Paul Gross' curling nemesis in Men With Brooms, and whom thissugarcane and I have determined is a canonical former rentboy in this show (which in turn leads to hilarious images of Paul Gross being cruised by this dude in his silver tracksuit, and, well, you know).

Wed, 27 May 2009 22:01:02 GMT

I keep drafting these long dull STUFF I HAVE BEEN DOING INSTEAD OF EVER UPDATING MY LIVEJOURNAL posts but after a paragraph or so they get so boring even I don't want to read them anymore. I mean, most of the stuff has actually been super awesome crazy fun times! Like uh a couple weekends ago we stalked Ryan North at the TCAF and made him sign a Choose Your Own Adventure novel, and then went home, played the Battlestar Galactica board game, and watched X-Men cartoons until 2AM. Also my boyfriend (lol) and I came up with this great idea for Bertrand Russell/D.H. Lawrence slash?

Uh, yeah. Instead, that far more fascinating and popular subject: Man, I Got So %&$@ing Wasted Last Night!

subduction: Hey, we should take deepsix out for a beer after her Big Serious Academic Meeting!
thissugarcane and deepsix: What a great idea!

Ten beers later:

subduction, deepsix and thissugarcane: lol fandom
deepsix and thissugarcane: lol gabe saporta
thissugarcane: lol this romance novel I jacked from the bar
subduction and deepsix: lol kirk wants spock to bone him so hard it's not actually funny so much as uncomfortably hot

[subduction and deepsix proceed to download this vid onto thissugarcane's computer and watch it on repeat until we lose the ability to breathe (ha!) or sit upright; thissugarcane rolls her eyes and goes to bed]

crosspost y/y?

Wed, 06 May 2009 00:59:55 GMT

I feel like this is a suitable Test Post: apparently (which is to say, owing to means entirely beyond my control or comprehension) I will be attending this event later tonight.

To paraphrase the text messages I sent to deepsix and thissugarcane earlier: that sound you just heard was twenty-odd years of indie cred being revoked.

Excuse me, I need to go find something sparkly to wear.

Tue, 05 May 2009 19:05:42 GMT

My sister came to visit me last week, which served as a good excuse to see a few touristy things around town I hadn't seen yet, like the Shoe Museum (lol I know right) and the AGO -- including their basement exhibition of 18th-20th century model ships, oh my God. The vast majority of the 18th-c. models (this one, for instance) were built by French prisoners of war, many of them using bone from their rations as a primary construction material, and each time I got to a new one the detail just stopped me dead in my tracks. Their website has an informative podcast and a couple more gorgeous photos, but neither does justice to the experience of seeing them up close and in three glorious dimensions.

I'd've quite gladly spent the entire four hours down there if my sister hadn't started clearing her throat and making motions toward the stairs -- which still turned out to be a good thing, since one of the major exhibitions showing at the moment is on William Holman Hunt (n.b. I don't know from art, period, but among the very few movements I know and like are the Pre-Raphaelites) so I got to spend another hour or so gaping open-mouthed at a use of colour like I've never seen elsewhere.

(Also, Dear ROM: Renovation: THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT. Love, subduction.)

This weekend, Star Trek. I'm cautious, but I suspect it'll be so different from the canon I'm attached to that I'll be able to deal with it on its own merits (unlike, say, Enterprise, where I think my fundamental problem was that it ~~was freakin' leotarded~~ wasn't different enough).

--

I've been kind of broke-ass the past week or two, mostly because I finally bit the bullet and bought my ticket for Bonnaroo, HECK YES. Four days in a field in Tennessee at the height of summer with a few thousand of my fellow variously-intoxicated twentysomethings: what could possibly go wrong?

I've also been more-than-usually neglectful of comments and e-mail, largely because I can't remember the last weekend when I wasn't (a) travelling or (b) hosting travellers. This coming one is no exception, but after that I think I'm free? Ish? Which is good, seeing as I have, like, work to do, and all, but it'll probably also mean I'll respond to some of those comments I've been meaning to get back to since, oh, March. *facepalm*

--

I finally got around to setting up a Dreamwidth account, but haven't done anything with it as of yet. I'll probably fiddle around with it in days to come and add people as I find them, but I haven't been keeping track of who's already where, so adding me might be a more reliable way of doing things; I'm subduction over there as well. I won't actually be reading journals over there for the time being, as most people still appear to be cross-posting to LJ, and that's probably what I'll do as well should I ever actually begin posting there.

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 15:02:15 GMT

~~AN ILLUSTRATIVE TALE~~

On the doors¹ to our respective bedrooms my roommate and I each have a sticky-backed rectangle of blackboard material, 11 by 17 inches or so in dimension. These (along with a box of chalk and a set of handcuffs) constituted my gift to said roommate on the recent occasion of her birthday. Limitless entertainment! On the cheap!

Right now, thissugarcane's blackboard bears a selection of trenchant comments relating to her graduate research. Phrases like "irrevocable deletion and loss in online spaces" and "unreliable narrators" appear.

My blackboard reads, in lime-green chalk, across its entirety:

LOL
ANTHONY
STEWART
HEAD

--

You guys: I have a date on Saturday night, AND IT IS NEITHER 1. WITH A 19-YEAR-OLD NOR 2. AN ACCIDENT. I -- when was the last time I could say that? Oh man, let's not even go there. (At least I'm having my period, so I still know it's not like the universe actually likes me, or anything.)

--

On Wednesday I improvised a hella good roast chicken (recipe follows, for those who like that sort of thing) for ~dinner guests~ and only broke one wineglass, spilled things on two different pairs of jeans, and tore one shelf out of my bedroom wall. I do not think the last three are directly related to the first, but further study should probably be undertaken. Caveat lector.

OBTAIN

2 decent-sized leeks

1 lemon

1 head of garlic

1 chunk of fresh ginger (about the size of your two thumbs put together, say; I didn't buy this expressly for the recipe so much as see it lying around in the fridge and decide to throw it in)

1 bunch of fresh sage

6 pears (I used two each of the brown Bosc ones, the squat Asian ones, and another kind whose name I don't know; they were diminutive and sort of blush-skinned and I chose them because they were pretty, ngl. I probably wouldn't do this with, like, Bartlet pears, though -- if it's green or crisp it probably isn't meant for this dish)

2 cans of pear cider (the LCBO stocks something called "Sir Perry", which was remarkably good. Not gonna lie, the second can is mostly for drinking)

a chicken, stupid

Pour one can of the cider into a small saucepan; add the garlic (separated into cloves, but left in their skins), some roughly-chunked peeled ginger, and the stems from the bunch of sage (reserve the leaves). If you have a bottle of dry vermouth hanging around, add a good slug of that too. If you don't, go out and buy one, for Christ's sake! It keeps forever on the shelf and is a heck of a lot more convenient than opening a bottle of white wine every time you need half a cup to make risotto. (What do you mean, that's not a problem you encounter in your daily lives?) Also, you can make martinis. Duh. I like Noilly Prat.

Uh. Where was I? Yeah. Heat that shit over medium. It'll start to bubble, the alcohol will cook off, whatever; turn it down to low and let it simmer for a while. This is where I took a shower, but you can get on with the next part if you're already clean.

Preheat your oven to 425 F, or thereabouts? Our oven blows, I never really have any idea how much hotter it runs than what it says on the dial, I just turn it about 25 degrees cooler than called for and stuff still gets burnt. Whatever. Throw the lemon into the saucepan so it heats up a bit and imparts a little lemony goodness, but not too much.

Git yr roasting tin out. Cut off the big green parts of the leeks and the gross bit with the roots. Slice on the diagonal, about half a centimetre thick; there should be enough to sort of loosely cover the bottom of the pan in a single layer. Slice your pears into roughly uniform wedges (with big pears this'll mean eighths, for smaller ones quarters). If any of them are on the crisp side (like the Boscs were, for me) add those to the pan now, interspersed with the leeks. Otherwise put the pear wedges to the side for now and get your chicken in the pan. Rub it all over, inside and outside, with olive oil, then salt and pepper. Turn it breast side up and carefully separate the skin from the meat without tearing it; shove some of those sage leaves up between the meat and the skin, both sides of the middle. Strew a few more around the tin, with the leeks and pears, for good measure.

Strain the saucepan business into a measuring cup; pick out all the debris from the colander (yeah, it's hot; suck it up, bitches) and put the garlic, sage stems and maybe one chunk of the ginger in the chicken's cavity. Then do that Jamie Oliver thing where you take the hot lemon and stab it all over with a knife so it hisses and steams and juice comes out, and then shove it in the chicken real quick so all the steam and juice goes in the chicken, which is sorta the point.

Flip the chicken back so it's breast-side down on top of the leeks and pears and sage; roast it for about 30 minutes, then baste with a little of the reduced cider mixture. Another 20 minutes, baste again, then turn the oven down to 400, flip the chicken over so that the breast side is up (note: flipping over a greased and smoking-hot chicken: NOT THE WORLD'S EASIEST TASK. Just try not to tear the skin any, like I did), and scatter the rest of the pears around. Roast another 45 min - 1 hr, until you poke it in the thick part of the thigh with your meat thermometer (what do you mean you don't have one?), and it reads 180 F, or until the leg pulls away easily and juices run clear. Baste maybe one more time during this period, but reserve at least a little of the juice and return it to the saucepan (esp. if you didn't buy that second can of cider like I told you to) -- you're going to want it as the basis for your gravy.

When the chicken's done, let it rest for about ten minutes. This is the part where I poked around at the yams in the oven and started shouting orders at people re: peeling potatoes, but really you should already have your potatoes peeled, cut and boiling away; we had a Potato Incident, is all I'ma say about this one. If you don't have yams and aren't making mashed potatoes, uh, pour yourself a glass of wine? Or start cleaning up, I mean, that's probably a good idea too.

Anyway, let the chicken rest for a bit, then get your roommate to transfer it and most of the pears/leeks etc. to a serving platter. Then get her to hold the roasting pan so the drippings and stuff go into the saucepan with the cider, where you're making your gravy. (SPOILER ALERT: I have not the faintest clue how to make gravy. This is the second time in my life that I've done it, and both times were in the last month. So you maybe shouldn't listen to me? But on the other hand, I apparently make some pretty fine gravy.) Scrape some of the sticky caramellized bits of pear and leek off the bottom of the pan, but don't bother doing the whole thorough deglazing thing, bc our stove is small and the roasting pan unwieldy. So there. You probably still won't have a whole lot of liquid, so this is where I added another third of a can of cider and another few slugs of vermouth; again, heat over medium, stir continuously. If you have a half-full carton of coffee cream in your fridge which you bought three weeks ago with the intention of making a bread pudding that never materialized, this would be a good place to use up a splash of that cream (the rest can go in the mashed potatoes). Eventually it'll start to reduce, but probably not enough for it to be looking much like gravy; this is where you cheat, and mix a couple of teaspoons of flour with the same amount of water, stirring with a fork to make sure you're not getting lumpy disgusting gravy, and judiciously add bits of the flour mixture until the whole business begins to thicken. It'll look kind of chunky bc of the veg and stuff from the pan; that's no problem, because we're about to put this sucker in the food processor. If you seriously don't have one of those, like, what is your damage? You can get a crappy food processor for $7 at Wal-Mart. But I suppose you could just strain out the chunky bits, too. Return to a measuring cup, because you are too ~~Classy~~ Rustic and Authentic to own a gravy boat, or indeed more than one vessel which has any kind of pouring spout. By this time the yams and asparagus will be done, someone will have carved the chicken, and Min will be sticking her fingers into the mashed potatoes and then licking them clean, so it's probably about time you sat your ass down and ate.

_____________
¹ For loose values of 'door', okay? Shut up.

Fri, 06 Mar 2009 17:53:27 GMT

Hi OK so here is my story about how airport security at O'Hare made me start dressing like Ryan Ross, retard robot!!

Well basically they made me take my boots off to be x-rayed in case they contained some science I guess? and then when I was putting those suckers back on I busted one of the zippers. So here I am without functional boots over the coldest days of the year (I only own one pair of boots bc of how I grew up on the West Coast and consequently Lack Common Sense) and stuck wearing black-and-hot-pink skate shoes as my only alternative. It was, as they say, all downhill from there, and the next thing I knew I was matching a cap-sleeved electric blue houndstooth blouse with a chunky magenta necklace and off-white shades, and taking pictures of myself making saucy faces in Photo Booth. THE END. D:
¹

Yeah, so I get to pick up my repaired boots today, which should mean ~~massive amounts of drunk twittering as I try desperately to score during thissugarcane's birthday blowout~~ a return to normal programming. Wait--what?

Anyway, I had a brainwave just now, you guys. If I ever get a tattoo, it will be a tramp stamp. A tramp stamp reading: ĤΨ = EΨ

Um, so how about that thing where you list five things you associate with me and then I gab about them for a while? Yeah? Yeah?

_________
¹ I guarantee this is the closest thing to bandfic which will ever be featured in this livejournal, so enjoy it while you can, kids.

THINGS I LIKE (a list)

Wed, 25 Feb 2009 19:48:32 GMT

ask_captainjack

Babylon 5. I finally got back to watching it over Christmas and mainlined S3 only to discover that my discs of S4 and S5 were corrupted. People who have seen the show: I finished season 3 and could not watch season 4. It was serious. (Eventually I torrented S4, and by the time I was done I was back in the t-dot and could borrow thissugarcane's discs of S5, but the urgency was kind of gone at that point so I dragged out watching S5 over for another several weeks.)

Anyway, I keep forgetting to post about it, but I did want to record at least a brief analysis. [General spoilers follow.] Overall: much like Farscape in that it was very difficult to get into, but very much worth the effort. Shame about what happened re: having to rush to tie things up at the end of S4 and then kinda being at loose ends with S5, but the part of the show I was mainlining (S3-S4) was really enjoyable, well-written and paced, emotionally compelling, heartbreaking and heartwarming in just the right balance, and the things everyone's been telling me for years about the uniqueness of the story (re: being planned so intricately in advance) were, of course, dead right.

I'll say this, too, re: being difficult to get into -- nearly all of the things which bothered me at the beginning were forgivable or even enjoyable by, say, S3 at the latest. The fact that it's superficially kind of dated is gotten over pretty quickly; it's not like I didn't grow up watching contemporaneous shows, after all, it's just a little lulzy for the first few episodes. It's heavy-handed in places, yeah, but it's space opera -- it's meant to be larger than life, and it also doesn't take itself too seriously (which can be argued for, oh, say, Battlestar Galactica -- this is why thissugarcane can't watch the latter -- and I love BSG regardless), so having, y'know, Michael York running around the space station claiming he's Arthur, King of the Motherfucking Britons, and whacking stuff with a sword -- that leavens things sufficiently. I found Ivanova virtually unwatchable in S1 but loved her to the point of tears by the end of S4 and missed her badly in S5. (I found Sinclair unwatchable, too, and to be honest if Sheridan hadn't showed up that might have been enough for me to give up for good. Ditto Talia, to a slightly lesser extent. thissugarcane says a lot of fans found Bruce Boxleitner to be obnoxious and a dealbreaker for them, but for me it's just the opposite; in particular, Sinclair strongly reminds me of Jonathan Archer, which, well, I think we all know how I feel about THAT.

Plus, I mean, Bruce Boxleitner was in TRON, you guys. TRON. Enough said.)

The other thing, and the thing that would have probably kept me watching all five seasons even if all of the above factors had continued to bug me -- is that I am utterly, completely, batshit crazy for Londo. His character, his storyline, his relationships with G'Kar and Vir and everyone else, his costumes, his retard accent -- good God. I think I can sincerely say I've never been fascinated by a character in quite the same way, and it's still very difficult to articulate just what I found so fascinating. I think it may actually be the case that one has to see it to understand it.

(Also, and this is probably waaaaay TMI, but most inexplicable crush EVER: I can't make any argument whatsoever that I find him physically attractive, and yet every time he's on screen I pretty much want to bang the crap out of him. Power kink, check? But it's more than that, too. And again, almost impossible to articulate what or why.)

This archive of 68k Mac shareware, aka the childhood treasure trove of my DREAMS. I'm pretty sure the lengths to which I have gone in order to get OS 9 running atop OS 10.5 on an Intel Mac -- for the purposes of playing games most sane individuals haven't played (or wanted to play) since 1991 -- is literally the geekiest thing about me. And I say this as an individual who, at two on Sunday morning, having imbibed seriously inadvisable amounts of Southern Comfort and orange juice, was talking about the zeroes of the Riemann zeta function.

Being Human, per nebst's pictorial recommendation. I grabbed the old pilot when it was circulating last year but never actually got around to watching it, and I'll stick with the assumption that the new version is an improvement. Point: Russell Tovey is the canonical definition of "adorkable", a word I kind of loathe, but which is so apt in this case I can't quite help myself. And yes, the OT3 potential is pretty much killing me, too.

Battlestar the Galactic, even (especially) when it's STABBING ME IN THE HEART, because let's face it, that's what this show always did best -- that's what's been missing -- and I kind of don't even want to hear about its race-/gender-/disability-fail at this point; it's not that I want to be one of those douchetards who's all STOP HARSHING MY BUZZ WITH YOUR THOUGHTFUL AND IMPORTANT DISCOURSE, MAN :(( but, in this case, I kind of do. sry! (No, but seriously, folks: I loved this show SO HARD in S1 and it's just delightful beyond words to have that love validated again after so many years of holding out. It's not intellectual; it's from the heart~~ --yeah, you know what I'm saying.) [Disclaimer: I started drafting this post last week, and okay, I wasn't actually totally crazy about this latest one. But I have the faith again, so it's cool.]

our kitchen table, which thissugarcane covered in paper about a week ago with the intention of mapping (hah) out some thoughts for the major research project she's working on. I'd post photos, but I left my camera cord on the left coast and am still waiting for my sister to mail it back to me, so--

THINGS IT NOW SAYS ON OUR KITCHEN TABLE (a selection):

"celebrity gaze"; "narrative (voice)"; "sexy fun times!"; "edward cullen"; "connectivity and communication systems rather than visual mapping and physical place"; "[subduction] is a cuntface. xo. [inscribed in a large pink heart]"; "yr girlfriend ♥ p.weezy's [rough sketch of a cock]"; "embodied talk"; "fluidity"; "sv sucks ass".

(Also appearing: an elephant (blue and silver), some skateboards (...), a surprisingly small number of food, tea and/or beer stains, and a Knob Goblin barbecue team.)

you. Even though I never update these days because my life is too -- interesting? retarded? yes -- you you you. Hi.

Items.

Wed, 03 Dec 2008 21:25:49 GMT

1. I have finally rolled onto that bandwagon and started getting the hang of Twitter, I think? Like, I signed up a year ago and then had no clue what the point of the thing was so promptly never used it. But then I hooked it up to my new cell phone and spent the weekend in the car with my aunt and her boyfriend; check and check. I know people have probably posted their usernames and so forth but I'm -- really lazy, basically? So y'all can add me if you so desire. Possibly I will talk about things more interesting than "lol that license plate spells LEZ", my hilarious fail in the dating world, and the relative merits of Joy Division covers? (I say "possibly" in the sense of, you know, it's POSSIBLE that Zac Efron really is all about the pussy. Et cetera.)

2. I've been watching Friday Night Lights, and it took me a few episodes to realize what I was finding hilarious about it -- like, obvs I was going to be all over a show about teenaged boys getting (1) dirty and (2) laid, don't get me wrong, but there was something else -- and I realized that, I'm not even sure why, but I was subconsciously seeing this resemblance -- not so much in features as in expressions, maybe? between Kyle Chandler and Joe Flanigan, and so on some level I'm essentially watching this show as AU where John Sheppard is a high school football coach in West Texas. Which, I mean, yeah. Hilarity.

3. Blah blah I am a stupid incompetent friend, I never comment on things, etc. I don't even have the excuse of being that busy, except when I am. I'm still kind of having ~~personal drama but whatev, really; mostly I'm just not up to much in the way of being chatty or fannishly productive, but I still love y'all. It's just a subdued, lazy, rainy-Sunday-afternoon-in-the-armchair kind of love. Twitter is turning out to delight me mostly because 140 characters tends to be about the amount of communication I can muster at any given time? So that's the state of the subduction. And what's new with you, boys and girls?

let's call this my extremely belated Remembrance Day post, okay

Sun, 23 Nov 2008 06:33:09 GMT

Just got back from seeing Passchendaele.

Paul Gross' directing abilities: ten out of ten. Paul Gross' acting abilities: ten out of ten. Paul Gross' fine, fine, fine ass: thirty billion out of ten, and Jesus Christ, what devil do I sell my soul to in order to be that pretty at 50? I'm not even that pretty now, guys. Paul Gross' screenwriting abilities: uhhhh.

Okay, let me be fair. I really, really enjoyed the film. Passchendaele is probably the single battle which lives in my head and in my heart as the icon of war. Vimy Ridge is all well and good, but somehow I just never got that jazzed about Canadian victories per se; Verdun and the Somme both come close for sheer enormity¹; but the image of Passchendaele is the one that's been indelibly stamped somewhere deep since I was 15 -- and, once again, ten out of ten for bringing it to life in, I swear to Christ, the most stunning battle scenes I've ever seen. Saving Private Ryan, eat your heart out; this was really phenomenal stuff. And by "phenomenal" I mean "grim as all get-out." Which is, of course, the reason Passchendaele's stuck with me all these years -- I couldn't even remember much about the details of the battle itself when we sat down; what I remembered was the word duckboards, and the struggle to conceptualize the idea of actually drowning in mud.

(It's odd, too, because I tend to be more interested in WWII, in general -- but when I think of war in the abstract it's this one, the Great one. I think I have, maybe, a tendency to identify with it through some weird kind of colonial pride, and I know this, again, comes mostly from where and how I learned about these battles, age 15, from a teacher whose angle on this war was more or less -- the colonial tragedy, I suppose, is a good way to put it? Like, the other huge iconic thing I remember from those discussions was Gallipoli, and specifically Gallipoli as the ANZAC tragedy, and as (excuse me) the birth of a nation -- and that's no coincidence. And I know, it feels strange to talk about post-colonial narratives when the colonials are -- let's be blunt -- white²? But I do think it is, in many ways, as valid a lens for viewing Canadian history (and Australian history, and New Zealand history) as for, say, Indian history. And that's, maybe, where Passchendaele -- where World War I in general -- hits me. Right there in the solar plexus of colonial outrage.)

I don't know. I have a lot to say about Canada all of a sudden, and a lot of that's another post for another night. I have a lot to say about Toronto, but that's another post, too. I have things to say about Calgary -- I really liked the choice to centre the film there, that Calgary got to be Canada for once. It seems to me, and maybe I'm just defensive now that I'm living in the centre of the universe (ha! ha! insert thigh-slap here, because that joke never ever gets old, am I right?!), but it seems to me that the West doesn't, by and large, get to be Canada very often in Canadian media -- and it bothers me, because, guys, I love this country with all my Maritime-born, BC-raised, Ontario-and-Quebec-bred, roadtripping heart, all four and a half time zones of it, and I love every miserable film set in Cape Breton and every grand novel set in Victorian Toronto just as much as the next girl, but there is a whole lot of country west of Lake Huron -- some of it the most beautiful in any hemisphere -- and it's nice to see it for a change.

Anyway. The story. Yeah, it -- I can forgive that it was kind of contrived, because, okay, it's epic drama; it's an illustrative tale; the point isn't for it to be plausible. I can even forgive at least some of the convolution, because it kept things interesting and engaging, and it's an understandable way to build emotional resonance when you're trying to tell a lot of story in a relatively short period of time. The script even supports the wild claim I was making to thissugarcane the other night, which was that any Canadian film, no matter how depressing, is at least occasionally hilarious³. What bothered me the most -- we'll forget the melodrama, because let's face it, I watch Gone With The Wind over and over, I'm in no position to pass judgement on that score -- were some of the actual nitty-gritty writing choices. In particular, the diction, which was sometimes so period-inappropriate as to actually throw me out of the scene (although Paul Gross' character was, to my considerable hilarity, note-perfect Benton Fraser almost the entire time); and you guys, some of the lines. I mean. I don't even. I'd quote the one really egregious one that's coming to mind, but in order to set it up properly I'd have to spend three paragraphs explaining who and what, at which point this would turn into one of those stories my sister tells which go absolutely nowhere until she just trails off and looks sheepish? Kind of like that sentence right there?

So, okay, maybe I didn't even have that much beef with the script. (Although, that one line, oh my god. People who've seen the movie, you know what I'm talking about.) I think I did in the middle, but it redeems itself enough by the end that I was forgiving past transgressions even as I was sitting there. (Also I was kind of on a date so I didn't want to go full-on dork squad and whip out my notebook to take notes during the movie, like I'd normally do? So it's possible I'm just, you know, repressing.) And again, some of the imagery toward the end is almost painfully heavy-handed, but then, conventions of the epic, blah, blah.

... Also, let's face it, I would totally let Paul Gross put the bricks to me, outdoors, in the pouring rain, in the middle of a rubble-filled swamp full of soldiers. So, once again: not in any position to pass judgement.

Anyway. It was good. Questionable moments, yes, but worth it on the whole. Maybe the only thing it lacked was -- I'm trying to avoid major spoilers here, but what I'm thinking of is, again, Gallipoli (I mean the film, here, with a very young Mel Gibson (no, I know, but seriously)? Australians, you'll know what I mean, and if the rest of you haven't seen it, you really, really ought to), and how the last five minutes of it are basically the most heartbreaking thing in the world -- I don't know. Passchendaele looked like it was coming close, but then it sort of squandered all that emotional capital with a pivotal scene that reached just a little too far, at least for me. The gut-punch in Gallipoli comes because it's so heartbreakingly ordinary. It's not the Christmas Day soccer match, which was what I found myself thinking of during the climactic scene of this film -- which is a great story, and an interesting thing to reflect on, but it's also -- singular, and iconic, in the same way that this scene was. And singular is great, and moving, but the thing that's actually heartbreaking about war is that it isn't singular, it is in no way singular, it is not at all singular -- it's the ordinary deaths and the ordinary dismemberments and the ordinary tears of the ordinary mothers. This is where the end of Gallipoli hits me -- with the sick shock of how many thousands of thousands of thousands of times that very ordinary tragedy played out. So it was in elevating the ordinary and specific to the grand and symbolic, I guess, that Passchendaele lost some of its resonance for me.

So. I won't say it's for everyone, but it definitely managed to push a good half-dozen of my personal buttons, and if you've thought about seeing it but just haven't bothered -- as opposed to, say, because you honestly have zero interest in war movies/Canadian movies/Paul Gross' baby blues⁴ -- do go and see it.

________________
¹ The British Army (including, you know, those funny-talking colonials, who didn't get to have their own armies until WWII) suffered upwards of 57,000 casualties on a single day at the Somme. For comparison: that's also the number of American soldiers killed in Vietnam over the entire course of the war. Total casualties at the Somme: 1.2 million.

² Obviously, there's another (arguably more important, certainly far more marginalized) narrative dealing with aboriginal experience of the Great War -- something this movie nodded in the direction of, but not much more -- but this is getting back to the more traditional idea of the post-colonial narrative, which, while valid and important, is different from the one I'm trying to articulate here.

³ That said, the same night (or maybe the night after) I downloaded and watched Suspicious River, on her recommendation, and I think this may have actually broken the rule. I don't remember for sure, and I'm not going to watch it again to find out, because HOLY NIGHTMARE-INDUCING MOTHER OF FUCK -- (vague spoilers: I was prepared for Callum Keith Rennie, because I've been seeing him do "creepy motherfucker" for four seasons of Battlestar Galactica, but AHHHHHHH, MICHAEL SHANKS. WHYYYYYYY. I'm not even lying: I had a literal nightmare. :((().

⁴ Please direct yourself to your nearest emergency room; it's possible that you are clinically dead.

(Verdict on the date~~ aspect of the evening, for those actually following my sad-sack ways: probably about as well as it could have gone, considering the whole issue where I had no desire to actually, you know, romantically interact with this otherwise totally pleasant individual. One or two awkward moments, but nothing I wasn't able to talk my way out of, and all in all, I'm glad I went, particularly since not going would have (1) postponed seeing a movie I'd been dying to see and (2) created much greater and longer-lasting awkwardness. Not that the second disincentive has ever worked before, but maybe I am -- uh -- learning how to function like an actual adult with, like -- social skills? Est-ce que c'est possible?)

IN CONCLUSION, I think I'm going to like the winter here, but I really goddamn miss London Drugs.

Mon, 13 Oct 2008 04:24:53 GMT

HELLS MOTHERFUCKING YES.

So, yes, okay, I may or may not have spent my Saturday night eating noodles at the kitchen table while thissugarcane read me summaries of Fall Out Boy AUs, but -- sometimes you win some, too, is what I'm saying, 'cause goddamn. That was the best show I have been to in years.

Also, hi, I live in Toronto now! Further updates, y'know, eventually.

Mon, 06 Oct 2008 02:26:06 GMT

I had a whole post here about how I've ~~taken to drink, which is in no way related to how I've also~~ been watching due South (shut UP), and how that in turn sparked a bit of a Canadian film renaissance all up in my rec room, but since it sat in the client for like, two weeks without being posted, I figured it might actually be more apropos to say -- sorry, I haven't really been around for a while? Between an epic head cold, multiple power outages, the never-ending work week, assorted social events, and two days of idiopathic internet failure -- also I'm, you know, moving across the country in a couple days -- so, apologies to those to whom I owe comments or e-mail or whatever, and yeah, I probably won't really be back in action for another week or two.

In other news, yesterday I braved the rain and, well, rain to register my preference between a marginally sentient android, a dude who can't speak English, and the Rt. Hon. Pornstache! DEMOCRACY IN ACTION, boys and girls.

Okay, now let's talk about due South.

So before last month I'd seen, like, half of one episode of this show, in between clicking back and forth to something else in commercials (I have a short attention span, okay), and from the internets I knew in an abstract way that it should be something I could get into, because (1) lols (2) Paul Gross (3) lols (4) gay (5) Callum Keith Rennie (6) lols, etc. -- and I get that it's tongue-in-cheek and poking fun at stereotypes of the Polite Canadian and everything, I do, but -- it's also kind of not? And while I really wanted to get into it, and the chemistry ~~and manliness of Paul Gross' manly manly arms~~ was abundantly in evidence, I just kept cringing at all these moments which I knew were supposed to read as parody-of-American-stereotype-of-Canadians or whatever, but were still just too -- I don't know. Like, it's legitimately sort of terrible? I made Smallest Sister watch an episode with me a couple of weekends back, and I was in hysterics, but she was just like, jesus, I want my 45 minutes back, and I was in hysterics partly because she was so completely right. But partly also for totally sincere reasons where the dialogue/shenanigans were genuinely hilarious to me. I had a whole analogy here with eigenfunctions of the Hamiltonian and so on, but let's just say that there's a Mountie in a closet who is simultaneously alive, dead and a huge retard homo and I kind of love it all.

Anyway, as mentioned, a few glasses of wine got me past this whole problem of the show being terrible, and now I'm all LOLOLOL TURNBULL and "excuse me, did Paul Gross just offer to show us the contents of his pants, and if so, WHERE DO I SIGN UP." I don't think it's going to turn into an actual ~fandom~ for me or anything, but I'm enjoying myself, what can I say? Plus, it's nice to have this sort of pocket-fandom with a decade's worth of fantastic fic that I can read without actually being invested (I'm so pathological about this sort of thing: I actually can't read SGA fic anymore, like, almost at all; somehow it just drives me crazytunes and makes it impossible for me to write anything in the fandom, and given the options I prefer the latter -- I know, it's insane, let's not get into it -- but I do miss having a fandom I can actually read in and enjoy).

And really, you know, it's not like it's the worst thing I've ever watched for the sake of The Gay -- because, hello, Torchwood. Also that one where homos fight vampires in space. OH. Speaking of which! Obvs the first order of business once I move in with thissugarcane will be to get shitfaced and watch a bunch of Stargate Atlantis. I figure I have maybe three or four episodes to convince her that the show is worth her time -- i.e., ~~not totally retarded~~ retarded in only the most hilarious of ways -- and scientific evidence only goes so far, so naturally I need your advice, dear internuts. Which episodes would you include in what obviously needs to be a carefully-planned regimen of hilarity and, you know, epic homoeroticism? HERE LET'S MAKE IT OFFICIAL

View Poll: LET'S HAVE A GAY-OFF

less "lolcat", more "ohgodwhycat"

Wed, 24 Sep 2008 11:15:40 GMT

I find White Ninja really hit-or-miss -- more "miss" than "hit", to be honest -- but I keep tabs on its RSS feed anyway because sometimes it makes funny jokes about the Canadian healthcare system. Or hoboes! And then other times it inadvertently summarizes the entire plot of Stargate Atlantis in six panels or less.

In other news, WAYS TO BE WOKEN UP AT 2:37 AM WHICH ARE TOTALLY AWESOME: A LIST

impromptu bedside rat dismemberment

somehow I lack a sass-talking CJ icon, so this'll have to do

Sun, 21 Sep 2008 21:23:17 GMT

I try to keep my politics in my pants around here, so to speak -- and let it be said that my jokes re: Sarah Palin ('s hair, daughter, e-mail, et cet.) are intended to communicate nothing beyond lol, Sarah Palin and certainly no statement of creed one way or another -- but good God, kids, do I ever miss that ~~blow~~ show sometimes.

Barack Obama meets Josiah Bartlet, as written by Aaron Sorkin.

Items.

Sat, 20 Sep 2008 23:41:04 GMT

1. Anon vs Sarah Palin fanboys: proof that the Large Hard-On Collider is warping the universe for greater lols, y/y?

2. Moving shenans, part 3454 of 32598735694: because I can only take a limited amount of stuff, I'm trying hard to economize and not take things like the vast pile of t-shirts which, while full of indie and/or nerd cred, I really only wear to sleep in. So I'm doing the pro/con thing -- with, for example, my glow-in-the-dark Periodic Table t-shirt¹:

PRO:

+ glows in the dark
+ lol chemicals
+ allows me to double-check my ability to rattle off the entire Periodic Table in order²
+ up to date through roentgenium!

CON:

- I would theoretically like to have sex again someday
- without chemists³

3. SGA 5x09: SHOW, YOU DID NOT JUST IMPLY THAT RODNEY GREW UP IN FORT CRACK.

... Actually, this explains kind of a lot?

4. I had a whole thing here along the lines of dear fellow Canadians, how can you watch due South without cringing every five seconds, but last night the answer was revealed: GET DRUNK. (Seriously, though, this is turning out to be a fairly successful strategy for getting into shows I know I'd enjoy if only I could stop cringing my way through the first twenty minutes -- cf. Farscape: Two sober attempts at the premiere, no dice; one bottle of red wine later, NON-STOP LOL-A-THON.)

5. I am enjoying last.fm's events feature possibly a little too much. In entirely unrelated news, magic 8-ball says: good thing your rent is hella cheap, bitch.

______________
¹ No, really
² No, REALLY
³ Amount of sex I have had with chemists: a lot

Items.

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 03:50:56 GMT

1. True story: the other night I barbecued some chicken and had a few beers and then suddenly I was all hey let's remember how to integrate by parts, FOR THE LOLS. And then I dug out my first-year calculus textbook and got down to bsns.

I am so street, y'all, Toronto better watch the fuck out.

2. Re: that Doctor Who casting rumour which has been making the rounds, CAN I GET A Y/MOTHERFVCKING Y. And maybe a pre-emptive AU where the Doctor travels to 1803 and picks Jack Hammond up off a beach in France. IT COULD HAPPEN, OKAY.

3. True story, take two: the story about me changing my journal name to "the TENTACLES of the LORD" goes like this: on Monday morning I was sitting at Starbucks drinking my quad long espresso and listening to one dude tell another dude about the TENTACLES of the LORD and how they FILLED him with LIFE. No lie.

4. So I'm writing this thing, kind of -- the one where John and Rodney drive across Canada (and ~~have lots of sex, obv~~ ~~fall in love~~ have lots of sex while also being kind of retarded for each other, you know, the way they are) -- and it's great to be ~writing from experience~ for a change, but it's also kind of weird because I keep catching myself writing stuff and then being like, no, wait, that was me. Like I'm plagiarizing my own future autobiography, here, dredging up memories from school trips to Winnipeg (I know, right) and family visits to the Maritimes and Cowtown Adventure '08. Not that I don't already borrow from life to a substantial extent (vide supra; I couldn't have dreamt up Cephalopod Jesus in two lifetimes), but in this story I feel a lot more self-conscious about it -- probably because I'm more used to writing things set in (a) space, (b) Wales or (c) the 18th century? (More importantly, I'm not too sure I want to deconstruct the implications of an archetypal correspondence between myself and Rodney McKay. I mean: yes, I'm an asshole and I like physics, but, y'know, let's really not go there.)

Let it just be said, then, for posterity: thissugarcane always eats the macaroni salad.

inquiring minds

Fri, 05 Sep 2008 05:50:36 GMT

I spent most of this afternoon catching up on e-mail and compiling "thingstodofortdot.txt" (in homage to "thingstodoforlondon.txt", which, damn, having opened the latter, let me just say: I am SO GLAD I have moved across the country and back before, both because it means I have a frame of reference and because it means there're a lot of things I don't actually have to do again -- for instance, transfer all my DVDs from boxes into binders to save space).

Tonight, I am watching The Magnificent Seven, which I bought myself with my grandmother's birthday cheque ~~because I couldn't find it illegally~~, and drinking Okanagan Spring Pale Ale, because come October 8th, I won't be able to get it anymore. SOB. (Other things I will miss, although I am trying, honestly, not to compile a list: the taste of water -- East of the Rockies it tastes like soap to me, because I was raised on the soft stuff; London Drugs, store of my heart. My kitty, let's not even talk about it.)

View Poll: OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE

____________
¹ Besides me, obvs.

BRAIDING TO ENCHANT

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 20:32:38 GMT

THINGS WHICH MADE ME LOL THIS WEEKEND, A LIST, BY LJ USER = SUBDUCTION

seeing this Replicator bitch play Edmund in King Lear

picturing the amount of wt ever-loving f I would unleash on the ass of anyone who tried this on me

WHAT

WHAT SQUARED

Everyone, her mom, and her mom's sweater-clad Chihuahua have already dissected both the Atlantis cancellation and Friday's episode to pieces, so I won't really talk about either except to say that in addition to the standard despair and indignation (re: the cancellation, obv; re: the ep I feel mostly things in my pants which I am not entirely comfortable sharing with the internetting public) I feel faintly -- ~~dirty like a Yankees fan~~ betrayed by the home team, I guess? Which is probably more about the ever-decreasing likelihood of the fantasy where I meet David Hewlett at the grocery store and [CENSORED] than anything else. OH WELL. Onward and upward, etc.

What else? I'm reccing Hornblower fic at crack_van next month; I guess that means I should, like -- read some?

SGA: Getting Lost Is Easier Than Losing Your Mind (1/2). McKay/Sheppard, NC-17.

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 20:25:59 GMT

Getting Lost Is Easier Than Losing Your Mind
Stargate: Atlantis, McKay/Sheppard, NC-17. 18,000 words.

Late S3, with incidental spoilers for previous material.

Notes, and a disclaimer.

"Look," Sheppard was saying as the jumper door opened, "all I'm saying is, I think we could get a lot out of a relationship with these people."

"Like what?" Rodney snorted. "Space herpes?"

Sheppard clapped him companionably on the shoulder. "Dare to dream, McKay," he said.

* 

There was a bowl of fruit on the conference table, and Rodney helped himself to a fistful of berries while they waited for Elizabeth.

"Anyway," Sheppard was saying, "what I really don't get was why you and Ronon got the local cheer squad and all I got was a tour of some sacred bathhouse." He examined a berry, tossed it in the air and caught it in his mouth. Show-off. "Clearly, not as psychic as they'd like us to believe."

"Oh, whatever," Rodney said. "You got off easy. I couldn't lose that blonde with the wine and the, you know," he said, making an ample gesture in front of his chest. "I mean, it was flattering for the first three or four hours, but—"

A meaningful look from Sheppard cut him off mid-expostulation. Elizabeth took her seat, folded her hands and looked around with her best shining expectant first contact face. "So?"

"No dice," said Sheppard. "Gotta keep operations small so they have the best chance of hiding from the Wraith. Don't think we have much they're interested in, anyway."

"As far as trading is concerned," Rodney muttered. Elizabeth gave him an inquiring look. "Listen, they're not viable trading partners, let's just move on," he continued, loudly.

She turned the inquiring look on Sheppard. "Colonel?"

"Well," Sheppard hedged, "they were friendly, and everything, but." He frowned a little. "Sort of—"

"Overly amorous," Teyla supplied diplomatically, just as Rodney said, "Creepy."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

Rodney sighed. "Look, even if they had anything to trade, we'd have to join them in an orgy just to get their attention long enough to negotiate."

"Yeah," Sheppard was nodding, "even the guy they sent to rub my feet seemed kind of, how shall I put it—"

"Faggy," Ronon supplied, taking a bite of the crunchy blue fruit he had selected from the bowl.

"Ronon!"

"It means when you like dick," he went on helpfully around a mouthful of not-quite-apple. "One of the Marines told me."

(Rodney was aware he wasn't exactly noted for his tact around here, but at least he knew enough to shut up when Elizabeth used her mom voice. Her expression of horror, which he'd already have pegged at about a six on the scale, jumped right up to an eight point five.)

"Well, not you," Ronon clarified. "A guy."

The briefing went more-or-less downhill from there.

*

With Rodney, it was mostly food — in fact, he didn't even notice anything weird for the first few days. A piece of fruit finding his hand as he groped for a scanner on his desk. A PowerBar he must have forgotten in the pocket of his tac vest. Then, chocolate pudding — and that was at least a little bit weird, because he'd actually just been thinking about lunch, and what dessert was likely to be today (along with the continuum hypothesis, how exactly Miko's hair did that thing it did, and whether a retarded monkey really would have done a better job coding this diagnostic program than Dr. Levine) — and because it really wasn't the kind of thing he normally kept lying around the lab. A sandwich, maybe, or some of that weird grain they'd gotten from the people on P36-9L4, which popped like popcorn but tasted like bacon, but—

Oh.

"Look, if you're trying to fatten me up so that I'll be less competition for the alien princesses—" he began, turning half-around in his chair to glare up at Sheppard. Sheppard just gave him his best Rodney, what? face — not the innocent who, me? one which meant he really had done something sneaky, or the what the fuck, McKay one which meant he was pissed, just the plain old perplexed one. (Rodney got that face kind of a lot.)

"Well, if you're not the Secret Pudding Fairy," —and that was probably one of those things he was supposed to save for the internal monologue, but whatever, really— "then where did that come from?" He indicated the dessert in question with his chin.

Sheppard — whose expression had been evolving into one which, if Rodney knew how to read him, indicated irritation bleeding into the simple confusion — frowned suddenly.

"It's not yours?"

"Well, you can't have it, if that's what you're asking," said Rodney, shifting protectively toward the pudding.

"No, look, I mean. Did it just sort of, um — appear?"

Now it was Rodney's turn to make a face. "What?"

"Listen, have you noticed—" Sheppard broke off. He wasn't meeting Rodney's eyes, which probably meant he was embarrassed about what he was about to say, which probably meant it was something stupid. Rodney could grow old thinking of all the stupid things John Sheppard could possibly have to say to him, and he wasn't exactly a patient man at the best of times.

"Spit it out, Colonel," Rodney said.

Sheppard shrugged, unsnapped his vest pocket, and held up a small, brightly-painted object.

Rodney could actually feel his eyes going wide. "Is that — oh, wow," he said, way more reverently than he really wanted to deal with right now, but — "Can I touch it?"

Sheppard's lips twitched.

"Oh, shut up," Rodney said, but he was too preoccupied to put his heart into it. "Where the hell did you get this? I thought there were only, like, a dozen prototypes ever made." He was still turning it over in his hands. "Oh my God, it actually fires."

"Yeah, yeah, hand it over," Sheppard said, swiping the thing back. "Anyway, the point is, I have no idea where I got it. I got back to my quarters after the mission debrief and it was just standing there on my desk."

"Hm," said Rodney.

"Yeah," said Sheppard.

"Hm," said Rodney.

"Yeah, I think we've established that, Rodney. Anyway, doesn't it seem sort of weird to you?"

"Maybe you have a secret admirer," Rodney said, still not really paying attention. His mind was already ticking over the possibilities; talking was mostly just a way to keep Sheppard occupied at this point.

"Yeah, no, I don't think so," Sheppard said. "How many people on this base do you think would know a rocket-firing Boba Fett action figure ever even existed?"

Rodney looked pointedly around the lab, his gaze taking in two theoretical physicists, an analytical chemist, a computer scientist, and Sheppard himself.

"Okay, point taken. But still. Unless this is your way of asking me out on a date, McKay," — Rodney rolled his eyes — "I just don't see anyone on the base doing it."

Rodney opened his hands in a shrug. "Well," he said, in the voice he reserved for the stupidest of questions and Marines, "if it wasn't someone on the base, Sherlock, who do you think put it in your quarters? The Magical Gods of Lucasfilm? Maybe the Ancients? Their way of saying 'hey, we've got your back in that fight against the Wraith, except, oh wait, we totally don't, but here, have an incredibly rare and highly prized but ultimately useless piece of 1970s sci-fi memorabilia instead'?"

Sheppard gave him a pained look. "Well, it's not completely useless," he said. "The rockets really do fire."

Rodney grinned. "That is pretty damn cool, actually. Let me see it again," he said.

"Rodney."

"Yes, yes, okay," he said. Because it was weird, and even if weird was sort of everyone's specialty these days — there really were only about a dozen of these things in existence, and Rodney would have bet two weeks' dessert that none of them belonged in this galaxy. "Maybe there's some sort of wacky Ancient Santa Claus program running amok, I don't know. I'll look into it."

"Cool," Sheppard said, getting up to leave. "Anyway, I'm supposed to, uh, I have a thing. Let me know if you come up with anything on the, you know." He waved his hand vaguely.

"Hey, nice doll," said Zelenka, coming through the door behind him.

"Shut up," said Rodney.

*

The people on P4M-778 called their world Calmyria: blue skies, golden fields, and buxom milkmaids everywhere they turned, and the mission looked like it was going smoothly until Rodney's mysterious energy readings led them straight into a cave so dank and forbidding that only its lack of legs saved it from being a walking cliché. Two hours and several close encounters of the reptilian kind later, the readings turned out to be emanating from an Ancient artifact which was (a) not a ZPM and (b) not looking like it was going to be good for much of anything, at least until Sheppard touched it and turned invisible. This made P4M-778 officially the best mission ever for about five minutes — until Sheppard got over the indignity, realized that he could still touch things, and started to investigate the ten thousand ways he could use this power to annoy Rodney.

In the end, the effect wore off on its own a few hours after they got back — which was good, because it meant Rodney didn't have to kill Sheppard. Not that he'd really miss him if he were gone, or anything, but it would probably be one of those things Elizabeth tended to frown upon.

"So I just ran into Ronon," Sheppard remarked without preamble the next morning, setting his breakfast tray down and slipping into the seat across from Rodney. "He had a kitten on his shoulder."

"Yup," Rodney confirmed around a mouthful of waffles. "He was out running yesterday, found it on one of the outer piers. I guess Elizabeth said he could keep it. I think he's calling it the Destroyer of Worlds. Or possibly Sparkles." He smiled into the middle distance, fork paused in mid-air and dripping syrup. "Kind of sweet, really."

"Kind of weird, is more like it," said Sheppard. He looked around, then leaned in toward Rodney, lowering his voice. "You don't think this is related to, you know, the thing, do you?"

Rodney was just opening his mouth to respond when Teyla appeared, looking faintly perturbed, and put her tray down next to Sheppard's.

"I have just seen Ronon," she began, tone uncertain.

"Yeah," said Sheppard.

"He had — an animal."

"Yeah," said Sheppard.

"It was attached to his shoulder."

"Yeah," said Sheppard.

"Ah," said Teyla, meaningfully.

"It's called a cat," Rodney said, shooting Sheppard a dirty look and spearing a piece of sausage from his plate.

"I do not believe we had such animals on Athos. They are not dangerous?"

"Not unless you're made of string," Rodney said. Teyla gave him a blank look. "Never mind. Here comes the man of the hour," he said.

Ronon sat down next to Rodney, and the kitten climbed cautiously off his shoulder, down his stupid oversized pecs, and into Ronon's lap. Ronon was having his usual ascetic breakfast: only about as much meat as one would find on a rather small boar. He fed bits of bacon fat into his lap with one hand while eating with the other.

"What are you calling it?" Rodney asked. "And don't say Schrödinger, that joke is so old." He rolled his eyes.

"How about 'Meredith'?" Sheppard suggested.

"I call him Ronon," Ronon said.

Sheppard blinked; he looked at Rodney, then back at Ronon. "Wait, what?"

"Uh, won't that get a little confusing?" Rodney asked.

"It's a good name," Ronon said, frowning.

"Yup," Sheppard nodded. He looked at Rodney. "Sure," Rodney agreed.

The cat woke up, yawned, gave Ronon's thigh a methodical kneading, rearranged itself into a different curl, and promptly fell back asleep.

Ronon smiled.

*

Some days, Rodney couldn't help wondering if this galaxy didn't hate them just a little.

On LS6-944 there was fighting. Just fighting; no argument, no misunderstanding, no secret alliance with the Wraith or the Genii or that dickhead Brad McAllister who used to beat Rodney up every day in Grade 5; no good reason any of them could think of. And sure, they got home, because they were good, and getting better every time they did this, which Rodney wasn't sure he liked very much at all — but then, that wasn't really something he wanted to think about, either. The point was that they got home: dirty and stinking, with Teyla's right arm in a sling made from half of Rodney's jacket and her left slung about Ronon's shoulders, but home, together and more-or-less intact. Rodney had what felt like a pretty good shiner on his cheekbone, though, from where he'd gotten up close and personal with a rock in the ditch they'd used for cover.

Dirty and stinking, and hot, too, because the planet was mostly desert, except where it was swamp — and something had bitten Rodney right on that part of his elbow that he couldn't quite see, so he couldn't tell if it looked inflamed or blue or like he was about to turn into a bug or a pumpkin or whatever — not that he was entirely sure what that would look like, but he figured he'd know it if he saw it — and whatever it was, it really itched, and he hadn't eaten in at least three hours, and God, he really needed a shower. He palmed the door to his quarters open, threw his pack on the floor and the remnants of his jacket over the back of his desk chair, and peeled articles of clothing off in twos and threes as he went, leaving a trail which culminated in a pair of swamp-dredged boots right at the shower door.

He turned the water on full and gathered it in his palms, scrubbing face and chest and armpits and elbows: it felt like microscopic alien grit was permeating his soul, that awful prickly sand-in-the-elastic feeling he always had for days after going to the beach, only ten times worse. He'd just towelled off, changed into clean clothes, and pitched the wholly unsalvageable parts of the others when the door chimed.

"I was just — hey," Sheppard said, stepping through the door and getting his hand around Rodney's jaw to turn him into the light, "hey, what happened to your face?"

"I smashed it on a rock in that ditch you shoved me into," Rodney snapped. "Thanks a lot, by the way."

"Oh," said Sheppard. The door shushed closed behind him. He was still looking at Rodney's cheek, eyes intent with an expression Rodney couldn't decipher. His fingertips skimmed the bruise — the touch sort of tingled, more than really hurt, but it was still kind of weird. Kind of weird, too, that Sheppard hadn't come back yet with some remark about how he'd be sure not to inconvenience Rodney by saving his life the next time the opportunity arose.

"Yeah," Rodney said, a bit uneasily, and tried to twist away from the touch, but Sheppard was holding his jaw pretty firmly, which was definitely starting to move into the official territory of weird. And then Sheppard's other hand was on his bicep, and that was weird, too, and Rodney was getting ready to ask what was up with Sheppard today, honestly, had he forgotten to take his normal pills or something, when Sheppard said "sorry," absently, and then did something a whole lot weirder where he sort of brought Rodney's mouth to his and — the word you are searching for is kiss, Rodney, Sheppard is kissing you, he thought frantically—

Things happened kind of quickly after that.

Somehow Sheppard managed to get him backed up against the wall by the door; he planted one hand a span above Rodney's shoulder, rubbing the back of his own neck with the other, and gave him a look that Rodney recognized, with a feeling of mounting panic, as roughly the one Ronon gave a good steak. And then Sheppard brought that free hand down to Rodney's hip in a tight, unmistakable hold, one which said hello, Rodney, here I am with my improbably strong hands and my improbably fine ass and my really stupid hair, invading your personal space in new and confusing ways, and there's not one goddamn thing you can do about it, and hooked two fingers down into the front pocket of Rodney's BDUs to haul him in close, and Rodney was just marshalling his thoughts to ask if he'd maybe inhaled some alien sex pollen or had a psychotic break or something when Sheppard stuck his tongue in Rodney's ear and he stopped thinking entirely.

Later, Rodney's brain switched back on and his hands started working again, so he got them all tangled up in Sheppard's ridiculous hair and kind of pulled a little, and okay, maybe Sheppard kind of liked that, because he made this breathless, indescribably goddamn hot sound all around Rodney's dick and sucked harder, loud and messy and hollow-cheeked — and then pulled off with his mouth all shiny and wet and sort of rubbed the head around on his lips a bit before going back down, which was, oh, okay, okay, and he wasn't sure how much he'd really wanted to know about what got John Sheppard hot and bothered, but if sucking Rodney's dick in the dirtiest way imaginable was what did it for him — well, Rodney thought charitably, who am I to rain on his parade, and came wildly, half in Sheppard's mouth and all over his lips, too, and a little on his cheek, and hands tight in Sheppard's hair like clinging to life, and heartbeat so thunderous in his ears he thought it would drown them both.

*

In the morning Sheppard was gone, and Rodney woke up in one of those weird positions he sometimes found himself in when he'd had trouble falling asleep: on his stomach, with one arm kind of awkwardly bent up under him, the other flung out to the side, and a little puddle of drool on the pillowcase where his mouth had gone slack in sleep. He took a three-minute shower, got his shirt most of the way on before he was all the way out the door, downed two cups of coffee and poured a third to go, and made it to the briefing room just barely on time: tablet in one hand, coffee in the other, bagel stuffed in his mouth for lack of anywhere else to put it.

"Nice, McKay," Sheppard said, giving him a wink and a thumbs up. (Rodney had the sneaking suspicion this might not have been an entirely sincere gesture.) But no secret smile, no lingering look, no hint whatsoever that the Colonel standing before him in mission jacket and freshly-laundered t-shirt had been naked in Rodney's bed — taking up most of it, for that matter — two hours earlier.

Well, what were you expecting? Rodney scolded himself. Secret handshake? Decoder ring? Obviously they'd have to keep this on the DL (this was how he figured Sheppard would put it, anyway); he was reasonably sure "blowing astrophysicists" was on the list of stuff which could get a guy thrown out of the Air Force, and frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted the word getting out, either. Even if the quietly-disseminated information that he was getting some would only make him that much more desirable to the female population of the Pegasus Galaxy, the blow to his reputation from letting it be known that it was Sheppard he was getting it from might not be worth it. Also, he wasn't really entirely sure he wanted it to happen again, and he wasn't ruling out the possibility that it had been some sort of elaborate hallucination, either. Maybe he'd inhaled the alien sex pollen. Maybe—

Okay, Rodney thought, playing it cool. I can play it cool. No problem.

It had been two weeks, three days, and one unconfirmed (but, Rodney prayed with all his soul, wholly true) rumour concerning Major Lorne and a rubber duck in the showers before Elizabeth, in her infinite wisdom, decided there might be a situation warranting investigation here. It hadn't really taken Rodney long to figure out the problem, once he was convinced there actually was one; all he'd needed to do was think back to the last time he was off-world and work out all the ways Zelenka could have fucked up in his absence.

(In the end he'd had to go back a couple missions — back to the planet with the nymphomaniacs and the wreaths and Sheppard's gay foot-rub, and that memory made him smirk a little, because maybe they were more psychic than he'd thought, after all — and it turned out that, yes, two science teams had been exploring new areas of the city while Rodney'd been off-world doing his best not to get syphilis and/or killed, and yes, they had maybe touched an unknown piece of technology in one of the rooms, in direct contravention of Rodney's Standing Order Number One, and some lights had come on but they really didn't think it was, like, a big deal, or anything, and — well, Rodney had pretty much stopped them right there, because if the explanation had gone on much longer he'd have had to strangle someone, and he was pretty sure that would be bad for his blood pressure.)

Elizabeth cleared her throat delicately, and the chatter in the briefing room settled. "Rodney?"

He tapped a key on his laptop, bringing a schematic up on the wall display. "Yes. Well, here we have a basic schematic of the device activated by Doctors Levine and Martineau, which we believe to be responsible for the objects which have been appearing around the city. From our preliminary scans, it appears to have both biometric and psychometric capabilities. It constantly monitors the heart rate, respiration, blood glucose, and serotonin and dopamine levels of subjects, in addition to a sort of passive telepathic field which listens for... prompts."

"But this is not new," Zelenka added. "Every door, panel and—"

"—and toilet, yes, all Ancient technology does seem to possess this sort of basic functionality, at least for those with the ATA gene. It's just a different implementation of the same interface we use to fly a jumper, or—"

"—or fire the Ancient weapons system, yes, I understand," said Elizabeth.

"But it gives us whatever we want?" asked Lorne.

"We have psychic toilets?" asked Sheppard.

Rodney rolled his eyes in a fashion encompassing the briefing room at large and the US military in general. "No," he replied, mostly to Lorne. "We're not talking about the drive-thru window at Wendy's, okay? It's more like — how do I put this? It doesn't respond to conscious commands. It was designed for the full-time care of children, to fulfill all their physical, emotional and intellectual needs in an anticipatory and organic fashion."

"So we can't always get what we want, but we get—"

Rodney shot him his best withering look, and Sheppard changed tack. "Anyway, doesn't this all seem awfully, I don't know, irresponsible? Leaving their children to be looked after by a computer?"

"These are also the people who created an army of self-replicating machines bent on destroying the universe," Zelenka pointed out.

"Right."

"Also, we think is experimental," Zelenka went on. "Maybe…" He waved his hand a little. "Not ready yet."

"Lot of that going around, huh," said Sheppard.

"Listen," Rodney said again, because clearly nobody was. "This is a serious problem, people."

"So — wait a minute, why does it affect everyone?" Elizabeth asked. "Radek doesn't have the Ancient gene, but he's gotten — items, yes?"

"Yes, well, uh, we have some tentative—"

"You don't know," Sheppard interrupted.

"—well, we don't have a working theory as such, no," Rodney finished, lamely. He glared at Sheppard, but the Colonel was already talking again.

"Okay," he was saying. "Maybe I'm just being dense here, but what exactly is the problem? So people are getting a few toys. It's kind of weird, and maybe I could have lived with knowing a little less about Sergeant Stackhouse's inner child and its affinity for whoopee cushions, but what's the big deal here?"

"First of all, it's not just a few toys," Rodney snapped. "Dr. Zhukova got stuck in a transporter last week and it created the exact tool she needed to get out. A tool we'd never even seen before. Believe me, it's not much of a step from a harmonic resonator to a P-90."

"True," Sheppard nodded seriously, looking at Elizabeth. "And Ronon got a cat. Imagine the chaos if it tried to give McKay a girlfriend. Or a personality."

Rodney seemed to be using the death glare a lot today. "Oh, ha, ha. Sure, it's all fun and games until Major Lorne's subconscious decides a thermonuclear device would really give him that warm fuzzy feeling—"

"Yeah, because I'm sure the Ancients really included the H-bomb on their list of supplies necessary for the care and feeding of infants," Sheppard interrupted, but Rodney, whose many congenital gifts included a superior vocal tract, just talked over him.

"Look, you're not getting it. These idiots activated the system, but they didn't input any parameters. It's like—" He waved his hands a little, feeling for the metaphor. "It's like an improper integral, okay? They didn't set any limits, so—"

"—so it's acting over all space, yeah, and—"

"—and in this case, that means it's taken everyone in the city under its tender and loving wing, and it will continue to evolve until it feels it's meeting whatever needs it thinks they have."

"We have," Zelenka corrected.

"And the system felt that Colonel Sheppard's requirements included... a doll," Teyla broke in. (She was really good, Rodney noticed, at that thing where you paused just long enough to express utter disdain without actually saying anything offensive. He needed to work on that.)

"Action figure," Rodney and Sheppard muttered in unison.

(At this Ronon and Teyla exchanged that look they sometimes did, the one that Rodney was pretty sure meant what the fuck are we doing hanging around with these lunatics, or possibly you know, we could probably take this place over with a banana and a roll of duct tape.)

"Anyway," Sheppard said, wounded, "I was having a very stressful week."

*

At some point in the last few weeks Elizabeth had sat Ronon down for a chat about linguistic sensitivity, which meant that, even though Rodney saw him roll his eyes when they were finally ushered into the presence of the Supreme Autarch of Delonia, he kept his mouth shut.

It was kind of hard to figure out where to look, though. The Supreme Autarch was packed into this sort of shimmery gold unitard which made it really, really hard to look directly at him, but looking around the audience chamber — at the guards (naked, well-oiled) or the statues (multiple penises) or the murals (anatomically improbable to say the least) — didn't exactly feel like much of an option, either.

At least, Rodney thought, he could take comfort in being probably the least uncomfortable person in the room. Teyla was wearing that utterly serene expression which meant she was either really freaked out or really pissed off, or both, and expending a lot of effort to keep it all under control; Sheppard had a shifty look which Rodney would have called cornered, except for how they were alone in the middle of a cavernous hall. Ronon just looked like he was intently focusing all of his superstrength on keeping his mouth shut.

And heck, Rodney was a scientist. So what if there were a few more dicks in the room than he was used to? Nothing he hadn't seen before. He could deal. Especially if the readings they'd taken from orbit indicated the presence of a vein of naquadriah two miles outside the city, which he was pretty sure they did. A couple of ounces of that stuff could power the city for months, maybe years. Not to mention blow the crap out of any number of Wraith hives, or Replicators, or whoever else felt like getting up in their collective grills that week. Really, having to spend a couple of hours in the Great Hall of Erect Penises was a small price to pay for the potential benefits.

To science.

That thought made Rodney feel a bit better. He raised his chin a little, and looked around confidently: nothing he couldn't handle. (Crimes against fashion were, after all, Sheppard's department.)

One of the guards winked at him. Rodney snapped his gaze back to the floor. He really hoped that tingly feeling in his face didn't mean he was turning bright red, but he was pretty sure it did.

"Can we get this over with?" he hissed to Sheppard, who was way ahead of him, studying the (mercifully non-pictorial) mosaic on the floor with great interest.

Sheppard took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said, a little too loudly. He raised his head, and managed to look right at the Supreme Autarch without wincing noticeably. Rodney was impressed.

"So I'll just, uh, get right to the point, then," Sheppard said, after a few beats in which it became clear that the Autarch wasn't going to lose a staring contest anytime soon. "As you know, we are, uh, travellers—"

"From a distant land," Teyla put in.

"Yeah, and we're interested in exploring the caves outside your city. We'd like to bring a few more of our friends, too, and if we find what we're looking for we'd like to arrange a trade."

Rodney poked him in the ribs. "Ow! I mean, uh, Your Highness."

The Supreme Autarch adjusted himself in his unitard, but didn't say anything. Rodney shot Ronon what he hoped was an eloquent look, but judging by his distinct failure to hit Rodney over the head with the nearest blunt object, Ronon didn't get the message.

At last, one jewelled, manicured hand rose in a vague gesture, and one of the guards nearest the dais — it was difficult not to notice that these were, in all imaginable senses of the word, the most imposing of the guards — boomed, "Approach."

Startled, all four of them looked at each other and then set forward at once, but the hand raised sharply. "Halt," said the guard, and then, with a leer Rodney could only pray years of therapy would one day allow him to forget, pointed to Sheppard. "Only him."

Sound reverberated, cathedral-like, in the great hall, but Sheppard was so close to the Autarch that Rodney, thirty feet away, couldn't make out what they were saying. He could, however, see the Autarch's fingers: jewels winking as they danced in the air, skimming Sheppard's hair, grazing his jaw, circling his bicep. Something — the air, probably, this was exactly the sort of place where the incense would be some sort of horrible aphrodisiac, and they were probably all about five minutes away from getting date-raped by Gigantor, and — something was making the blood rush to Rodney's face and pound in his ears at the sight, and he felt queasy and surprisingly annoyed, like it was him up there getting felt up by Liberace — but he couldn't quite look away, either.

Part of the reason they'd wound up going to Delonia in the first place was that a week of solid effort on the nursery program — well, a week of solid effort, except for time spent eating, or sleeping, or fixing the other hundred things that went wrong on a daily basis, or having implausibly spectacular sex with Sheppard — had turned up absolutely no results. Unless Rodney's overwhelming desire to throttle Zelenka counted as a result, and he was pretty sure it didn't, since that was kind of an all-the-time thing. The rest of the team was going stir-crazy, anyway, and on Sheppard's recommendation — "A mission. Any mission." had been his exact words — Elizabeth had dispatched them in a jumper to check out a few of the space gates which had been piling up on the to-be-checked-out list.

If nothing else, Rodney had figured it would take his mind off the voice which had been whispering in his ear lately that this thing with Sheppard, which had happened three and a half more times since the night after LS6-944, wasn't quite right: that just standing around being hot and good at math had never caused Sheppard — or, well, anyone — to throw himself at Rodney before. (Why it hadn't was an entirely different, though no less compelling, question.) It didn't seem to be working, mostly because Sheppard was his usual professional self anytime they were off-world, or in the briefing room, or anywhere outside Rodney's quarters, really.

(Well, as professional as Sheppard ever was on a mission. Which wasn't saying much beyond the fact that he managed to keep his pants on at least 75% of the time, but he was scrupulously resisting the temptation to make out with Rodney, and Rodney had good reason to believe that required quite a bit of effort on Sheppard's part. And that was admirable, and all, but really really not helping with the whole not-thinking-about-it thing; in fact, it was making Rodney think about it all the goddamn time, and that was starting to be sort of a problem.

He had a pretty good view of the way the aforementioned pants fit Sheppard's ass from back here, too.

Damn.)

"Well, we'll just be, uh, calling our friends, then," Sheppard was saying, already backing away from the dais as quickly as he reasonably could. "Pleasure doing business with you," he called.

When the twenty-foot gilt-embossed doors finally crashed shut behind them, Rodney let out a sigh which felt like it could have powered a small wind turbine for a year.

"Well," said Ronon, "that was quite homosexual."

*

The day after they got back from Delonia the environmental controls went on the fritz, and when Sheppard batting his eyelashes at a console didn't seem to do the trick, it meant that Rodney got to spend the better part of seven hours on his back with his head in a plasma conduit, condensation dripping into his eyes. Around hour two, right when the twinge in his neck was threatening — well, Rodney wasn't quite sure what, but he was sure it was serious; could you get a hernia in your neck? He'd have to check — a familiar-sounding someone cleared his throat outside the conduit.

"What," Rodney asked tetchily, squirming out and craning his neck.

Sheppard was holding out a glass of some liquid. Its composition was totally and utterly immaterial; it could have been fermented yak milk for all Rodney cared, because the glistening beads on the outside of the glass said that it was cold.

"Iced tea," Sheppard said. Rodney, who had been in the middle of grabbing for the glass, shot him an accusing glare, and Sheppard looked defensive.

"No lemon," he said quickly, sounding hurt that Rodney would even have to ask. "Scout's honour."

"Thanks," Rodney gasped; he gulped down half the glass, and started to cough.

"Easy, there," Sheppard said. He laid a hand on Rodney's back, halfway between a pat and — something. It almost felt like they were on their way to some kind of Awkward Moment, but then Sheppard took his hand away, just before it would have gotten weird, and Rodney regained the ability to breathe.

"You'd think the stupid nanny program could deal with this," Rodney grumbled. "I'm only an astrophysicist, but I'm pretty sure being roasted alive is bad for child development."

"You'd think it could bring you the iced tea, too, and save me the trip." Sheppard smiled crookedly. He slid down the wall to sit next to Rodney.

"Well, now that you mention it," Rodney said, raising a finger, "this could use a touch more sugar. And maybe one of those little umbrellas." He looked around hopefully, as if one might materialize.

"Yeah, it hasn't exactly displayed what I'd call a logical behaviour pattern so far," Sheppard continued, ignoring Rodney. "I'm pretty sure it gave Ronon that kitten, and I don't know about you, but he's not really the first guy who springs to mind when I think about who to put in charge of small mammals."

"Huh," said Rodney. He looked sideways at Sheppard. "What have you been getting, anyway?"

"Just these," Sheppard said, fishing a couple of crinkly plastic-wrapped objects from his pocket and holding them up.

"Lollipops?" Rodney asked. "That's all?"

"Yeah," said Sheppard. "Oh, and a trampoline."

*

One night they'd been sitting on Rodney's couch, playing Portal on the Xbox which had appeared in his quarters a few weeks back ("This isn't even out yet," Sheppard had said, tone somewhere between reverence and pure boyish delight), and Sheppard's thigh had brushed Rodney's, and they'd looked at one another, and then things had sort of devolved until Rodney was on his back with his hands up behind his head, clutching at the arm of the couch.

Just because Rodney didn't believe in rewarding incompetence didn't mean he was incapable of giving praise where it was genuinely due, and the fact could hardly be denied: John Sheppard was a seriously expert cocksucker. And Rodney had told him so, said his name, which wasn't really something they did, normally, but it was awfully good and Rodney did tend to forget the rules at times — and Sheppard had stopped sucking Rodney's dick for a minute and said, with one of those funny little smiles of his, "you know, you could maybe call me John," and Rodney'd said, "okay," and that was sort of that. But at the morning briefing the next day he was Colonel Sheppard again, and had pants on and stuff, and Rodney wasn't really sure whether calling him John violated the whole don't-ask-don't-tell thing they had going on here. So in the end he kept on calling him Sheppard to his face, and John in his head, and mostly just "oh, fuck, yes" when they were doing it.

He couldn't really say when it had slipped into a routine. It always seemed to be John setting the rules: John coming to his quarters, never the other way around, and John leaving before Rodney woke up and showering back in his own room and coming to morning briefing looking fresh and composed and not at all like the guy who'd kept Rodney up half the night with his hot, desperate mouth and his "come on, Rodney, make me take it". It didn't really occur to Rodney that it was a bad thing, or a problem, because even though John was always gone when Rodney woke up, he did usually stay for a while — and he was kind of nice to throw an arm over in the night, reassuringly solid, and he didn't hog the covers and usually stopped snoring when Rodney gave him a good jab in the ribs — and anyway, it was easier for Rodney to sleep in his own bed in his own room where he always knew where his clean underwear and his EpiPen were.

Besides, he kept on coming, so it wasn't like he had some kind of big gay issue with the whole thing. And obviously they had to be discreet; it wasn't like they could just roll out of Rodney's quarters together and into Elizabeth's office, wearing each other's pants and "by the way, totally doing it" looks on their faces. Anyway, the last thing Rodney needed was for this to turn into some kind of relationship.

So mostly things just went on, and Rodney worked on the nursery-device problem whenever he wasn't occupied by more pressing issues, like the imminent demise of the universe — which, as John said, only happened a couple of times a week, really, and couldn't Rodney maybe hurry it up just a bit? And Ronon walked around with the Destroyer of Worlds on his shoulder, and John seemed to have a lollipop in his mouth at every single briefing, which, as Rodney had pointed out one night after John had done something truly impressive with said mouth, was just not fair, and John had just smirked and shrugged and stuck Rodney's hand down his pants. And sometimes John would bring him a sandwich while he was working, and sometimes he'd just come by to bother Rodney when he was alone in the lab late at night, in that annoying way he had which Rodney was, to his considerable alarm, coming to recognize as caring. And once, at two in the morning when the code Rodney had been compiling for five hours terminated with a fatal error, John had prised the keyboard gently from his hands before he could smash it, and rubbed the tension out of Rodney's neck and shoulders until they went loose and liquid; and then he'd shoved coffee cups and stacks of old journal articles off Rodney's desk and jumped up, tugged Rodney to stand between his thighs, and kissed him and let him put John's legs over his shoulders and fuck him until neither of them could stand. Later he'd gotten Rodney back to his quarters and bullied him into bed, and the next day Rodney had gotten up bright and early, fixed the code, and saved two solar systems before breakfast.

On M5X-993 they got thrown in prison, which shouldn't really have surprised Rodney — or any of them — at that point, although hey, at least this isn't the worst alien prison I've been in had to be in the running for Worst Silver Lining Ever. They were all together in one cell, which was nice, because it meant they got to chat in between their fourteen-hour boulder-smashing shifts, and play tic-tac-toe in the dirt, and try to plot their escape, and stuff; and it was pretty big, which was nice, so there was room for even Ronon to stretch out and sleep full-length on the ground.

They'd been there for three days, which was pretty worrying in and of itself, because even though they'd been meaning to stay a week — this was one of those planets, Rodney's very favourite kind, where the people seemed all nice and friendly and interested in trade and cultural exchange and group hugs and not being backstabbing assholes and everything, so that after their initial visit through the gate they'd agreed to come back with some Marines and help dig wells for a new irrigation system in exchange for a share of the harvest — they'd still scheduled daily check-ins with Atlantis, and by now they'd missed two. Rescue was starting to look a little conspicuous by its absence, and after they'd attempted escape twice on the first day and gotten suckerpunched and denied their ration of watery gruel for their trouble, John's glower just got more glower-y every day. Three days' growth hadn't improved his looks, either. Ronon paced a lot and proposed wildly improbable schemes involving the tearing off of limbs, or the use of Teyla's hair ("I saw it in a play," he said, defensive), and Teyla herself meditated more and more and somehow still managed to look increasingly pissed with each passing hour. Mostly Rodney just concentrated on trying not to freak the fuck out.

That was getting kind of harder, though, as another night descended with no sign of shock, awe, or rescue in any form. And the rules had been getting kind of blurry anyway, because there was that time in the lab, and the other day at lunch John had given him his Jell-O, which was a public display of affection if Rodney had ever heard of one — and John had looked so frustrated all day, and Ronon and Teyla were sleeping and couldn't see them in the dark and probably wouldn't care anyway, so Rodney reached — overbalanced a little — steadied himself with one hand — found John's mouth with his fingers — and finally got a hand under his stubbly jaw and kissed him, firm and warm and sweet.

"Um," John said, when Rodney pulled back, and Rodney thought, damn, shit, damn, but John didn't really seem angry or anything — not angry with him, Rodney mentally corrected — and after a moment he said "um," again, and then, finally, "thanks," and his voice kind of softened and he said again, "thanks, Rodney," and patted him a little awkwardly on the shoulder, and so Rodney figured they were probably okay, even if he had broken a rule after all.

(Much later, after the Marines had come and they'd gotten home safely, and after he'd eaten and showered and eaten again, it occurred to Rodney that he was maybe a little bit in love with John. After all, they'd been imprisoned and beaten up and covered in alien dirt and neither of them had brushed their teeth in three days, but Rodney had kissed him anyway: and if that wasn't love, Rodney didn't know what was.)

*

Zelenka looked up when he came in. "Oh, good," he said. "Come here, I have something to show you."

It was twelve-thirty, maybe one in the morning, but Rodney hadn't been able to fall asleep, and after extricating himself from the covers and one of John's legs, thrown carelessly across his hip, he'd gotten dressed and come down to the lab to see if he could make any progress with the override code they'd been writing that morning. The problem, as always, was that the Ancient systems adapted so damned quickly; by the time they'd finished analyzing one set of data and started working up the code that would turn the system off, it was already rewriting its own algorithms, rendering their program useless before they'd even finished compiling it.

It had only been a week since they'd gotten out of prison, and yesterday Rodney had accidentally married a high priestess on M2L-478, but the rest of the team had managed to bust him out before the natives could sacrifice him to the statue of the Goddess (which looked a lot like Eleanor Roosevelt, if she'd had three eyes and been made out of macramé), so that was okay. It was the team's tenth accidental marriage, too, so they'd had cake and beer when they got back to Atlantis, and Teyla had brought out the musical instrument which had turned up in her quarters three weeks ago — it looked almost exactly like a five-stringed banjo, but she called it a zatak, and John was teaching her what he called the sacred music of Earth — "Who is this 'Four-Chord Gord' Rodney speaks of?" Teyla had asked, and John had frowned and shaken his head disapprovingly — and John had put his arm around Rodney's shoulders and said "Congratulations," and stuffed a piece of cake in Rodney's mouth, smearing blue frosting all over his lips and chin, and Rodney had looked at the smug grin on John's face and thought, with sudden and perfect clarity, Jesus, I love this retard.

(Then he'd realized that this thought was causing a dangerously stupid look to spread across his face, and John to give him a funny look in turn; and instead of answering the question hanging, inchoate, in the air, he'd turned to Ronon and stuffed a piece of cake in his mouth, too.)

Zelenka was pulling schematics up on one screen and waving in the direction of an enscribbled whiteboard with his other hand. "So," he said, "I was thinking. Our problem is the adaptability of the Ancient program, yes?"

"Yes," Rodney said slowly, not quite seeing where — if anywhere — this was going.

"So what we need is another program which — ha!" Zelenka said suddenly. "Yes, here, look for yourself." He pushed Rodney into a chair in front of the terminal, pointing excitedly at something on the screen. It took Rodney half a second to realize what he was looking at, and another full second to wrap his mind around how completely insane Zelenka must be to be proposing this as a solution. He pushed his chair back from the desk.

"Are you nuts?" he asked. "Wait, stupid question; let me rephrase. Have you completely and utterly lost it?"

"It will work," Zelenka insisted. "Look, here. We can remove these subroutines—"

By the time Rodney got back to his quarters it was past four, and John was gone. Well, Rodney could wait to tell him in the morning; they wouldn't be ready to test their plan for a day, at least. He retrieved the good pillow from John's side of the bed, punched it into an acceptable shape, and fell into a heavy, satisfied sleep.

*

"You want to do what?"

"Well, they wouldn't be that kind of Replicator."

"What's that, the kind that tries to kill us or the kind that tries to kill us?"

"I know, I know," Rodney said, hands raised in a "bear with me" kind of gesture. "That's what I said, too. But I've checked Zelenka's code twice. I really think it's our best shot."

John looked unimpressed. "I don't know, Rodney." He turned to Elizabeth. "Do you really think it's worth the risk?"

"I heard it painted your quarters pink," Ronon remarked.

"Worth the risk," John confirmed quickly.

Elizabeth, however, still didn't seem convinced. She pursed her lips, and looked like she was about to say something about proceeding with caution or exploring all our options.

Rodney was getting pretty tired of exploring all the options.

"It's started making people," he blurted out. Elizabeth paused, mouth half-open; all eyes turned to Rodney.

"Teyla was in the gym yesterday and it generated some kind of holographic sparring partner for her," Rodney explained, looking to Teyla for confirmation. She nodded. "Only it wasn't like any of the holograms we've seen before," he went on. "You can't normally hit a hologram, and they can't hit back. We think it was using some kind of dynamic force field technology — it could really come in handy in the field, actually, we're trying to replicate the effect—"

"Your point," John prompted.

"The thing is, from what Teyla's told us, it looked just like a real person. She probably wouldn't even have known it were a hologram, except that she didn't recognize it, and, well, it ceased to exist when she left the room. But it talked, it breathed, everything."

Elizabeth nodded, her face serious. It was finally starting to look like the potential for Very Bad Things was sinking in, here.

Rodney rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Also, it might have created a hologram of Zelenka this one time, because he swears I never told him to run a diagnostic on the environmental systems the day before they failed, but it's equally possible that he's just lying." He paused. "Or, you know. An idiot."

"Wait a minute," Elizabeth said, frowning. "I thought there were only holographic projectors in very limited areas of the city."

"Well," said Rodney. He'd kind of been hoping nobody was going to pick up on that minor detail. "It's, uh. We're not really sure, but it's, uh, possible they're not holograms at all. Technically."

John straightened out of his slouch, getting about half a foot taller in the process. "Rodney," he began, voice low and warning, "if you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting—"

"Well, they wouldn't be that kind of—"

"Rodney."

Rodney waved his hand dismissively. "They would have at most a rudimentary intelligence. Their behaviours would be highly programmed, with little to no autonomy. More to the point," he continued loudly, looking back at Elizabeth, "they'd be sucking huge amounts of power from our already-depleted ZPM. Now, remind me again, Colonel, how many of those do we have? You aren't hiding one in your hair, are you?"

"So let me get this straight," said John, clearly unable to muster a comeback to that. "Our brilliant plan to fight the Replicators is… more Replicators."

Rodney folded his arms across his chest.

"And how exactly is this not your worst idea yet?"

Elizabeth sighed and leaned forward, cupping her chin in her hands. "I'll admit I'm very concerned by the possibility that it could be duplicating members of the expedition, not to mention the potential drain on our energy reserves. But we still don't have any reason to believe the system would do anything to damage us, and I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with a solution which involves such a serious security risk to address a program which only gives us things it thinks we need. Right?"

That was right about when the dildo materialized on the conference table.

*

Things Rodney Really, Really, Really Misses About Earth:

1. Maple Dip donuts.

2. The Richmond Night Market.

3. The way large purple silicone dicks hardly ever appeared out of thin air.

4. Porn.

*

"I'd just like to state one last time that this is really Dr. Zelenka's plan, and I accept no responsibility if it somehow backfires and kills us all."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah."

It hadn't taken much longer to convince Elizabeth the plan (Rodney had wanted to call it "Operation McKay"; John had voted for "Operation Shut Up, Rodney") was worth the risk, especially once Rodney had pulled up a simulation demonstrating how much energy half a dozen of the androids could drain from the ZPM in under a week.

Rodney rubbed his hands together briskly. "Here goes." A six-key sequence activated the program.

"That's it?" John asked after a moment.

"What were you expecting, lasers?"

"Well, I don't know," said John. "Maybe a Replicator busting through the wall and killing us all."

Rodney gave him a look.

"Or lasers," John agreed.

"It's going to be a while before we know. Want to grab some dinner?"

"Yeah, okay," said John, and jumped down off of Rodney's desk. Dinner was chicken and salad and almost-rice with almost-pineapple, and afterward they ran into Teyla and persuaded her that the fact that she hadn't seen Tron represented a grave defect in her comprehension of Earth culture and one requiring immediate rectification. Ronon and Zelenka joined them when they heard there was going to be popcorn — or almost-popcorn, anyway. They watched the movie in the common area. Ronon sat cross-legged on the floor, peering at the screen like a three-year-old; Teyla and Zelenka sat in chairs, and Rodney sat on the same couch as John and noticed that they crossed their legs in exactly the same way, right foot on the opposite knee — had they always done that? He couldn't remember — and threw popcorn at Ronon's dreads. ("Ten points for every one that gets stuck," he whispered to John. John won, 160-90.)

"Hey," John said later, in the corridor. Rodney was standing at the door to his quarters, just about to palm it open. "Are we going to get to keep the stuff?"

"Huh?"

"The things the program created, are they going to, you know." He made kind of an exploding motion with his hands. "I mean, that Boba Fett's worth a lot of money."

Rodney tilted his head to the side. "Huh. I hadn't really thought about it, actually." He rubbed his chin, then shrugged. "I don't see why not. They're as real as anything else. The code we wrote will just shut the system down, not undo everything it's done."

"So—"

"So you'll probably have to repaint your quarters, yes." Rodney smirked. "Although I think Springtime Dream is really your colour."

*

"Shut it down! Shut it — oh, get out of the way, you imbecile, let me—" Rodney shoved the blond biophysicist — Bayliss? Bateson? Rodney always called him "Baywatch" in his head; someone that good-looking couldn't be a real physicist, and it showed — away from the terminal and began frantically typing commands.

To no avail, as it turned out. At least John wasn't there to — oh, hell.

*

"Replicators so aren't going to take over the city," John was saying, falsetto, the next morning. "Don't be ridiculous, Colonel. What could possibly go wrong?"

Rodney glared daggers over his eggs and speared an innocent piece of sausage with unnecessary force.

"Operation McK— ow!" Rodney had flicked a grape at him, hitting him square in the middle of the forehead.

"Oh, shut up," Rodney said. "You should just be thankful I'm here to fix Zelenka's screw-ups. If it weren't for me—"

"Way to go, McKay, I think that's your third time almost destroying the city this month," Ronon chimed in, joining them.

"And it's only the second week! You're ahead of schedule," John added, reaching across the table to pat Rodney on the shoulder.

Rodney swatted the hand away. "Believe me, you'd learn to appreciate my work pretty quickly if I weren't around."

"Also the extra food," Ronon commented.

Rodney narrowed his eyes.

John finished his oatmeal and pushed his tray away, stretching briefly before he rose from the table. "Mission briefing in twenty," he called back on his way out of the mess hall.

"I can't believe we're still going on this stupid mission," Rodney muttered, stabbing at another piece of sausage. "Especially after we were up half the night dealing with the stupid Replicators." Absently, he put his coffee cup to his lips, then grimaced when sweet life-giving nectar failed to flow forth. He got up, with a vague wave of the cup in Ronon's direction to indicate he was going for his — third? fourth refill?

He cracked his neck from side to side as he waited for Dr. Biro to finish adding cream to her coffee. At least, that was what he'd initially assumed she was doing; at this rate, it was starting to look like she was performing a titration. A very, very slow one.

"Take your time, it's not like I'm a busy person or anything," he muttered.

Finally the line moved up, and the redheaded Marine who'd been behind Biro shot Rodney a dirty look, but really, it wasn't like he was budging, or anything; he was just getting coffee, so it was perfectly reasonable for him to go to the head of the line. That was where the coffee was. (He debated clarifying this point, but decided the polysyllabic words might be too much for a military mind, impressive rack or no. Besides, justifying one's actions only detracted from the aura of genius.)

His neck still felt stiff. He'd slept weirdly again — well, actually, he'd hardly slept at all. John hadn't come by, but then, that was understandable, seeing as how he'd been up most of the night trying to keep the Replicators at bay while Rodney worked on finding a real solution. And now that they'd saved the city, what thanks did they get? Some stupid diplomatic mission where he'd probably have to sit around smoking patchouli with the village elders, watching his brain cells die one by one while John went on some kind of vision quest as prelude to trade negotiations and the maidens (there were always maidens) oohed over Ronon's biceps. Worse, Teyla had gotten out of the mission with some sort of flimsy excuse about the "funeral" of a "friend" on the mainland, so they'd be taking some clueless grunt as backup, which would probably mean getting them all killed as a bonus.

(In the end, it was actually the Wraith who nearly got them all killed, which Rodney supposed he couldn't really blame on their backup — even though said backup had turned out to be the hot Marine who'd glared at him in the coffee line-up that morning, and who could have easily had it in for him. At least she hadn't made anything worse, and he had to admit it'd been helpful having her there to keep the Wraith from eating him while he performed a minor technological miracle involving the DHD, the power cell from Ronon's blaster, and the piece of gum John had been chewing all morning.)

Later, after they'd made it back through the gate, after they'd showered and eaten and Rodney had flopped into a quick postprandial nap, he swung by the mess hall for a cupcake and a caffeine refill and made his way to the lab.

On the way to the station where he'd been monitoring the Replicator code's progress, a flash of colour caught his eye, and he did a double-take.

"Is that a Gameboy?"

Zelenka sat up and looked over his shoulder, instantly defensive. "We didn't have these things, okay? You had—" He gestured vaguely, feeling for a suitable cultural reference. "You had Rainbow Brite, we had Comrade Monochrome."

Rodney raised an eyebrow.

Zelenka huffed impatiently. "Leave me alone, Rodney."

"Fine, fine, play with your little toy." He turned back toward the terminal, but he could still feel Zelenka rolling his eyes.

Ronon showed up a few minutes later; he picked up a culture dish one of the biologists had left lying around, turning it over in his hands, and then just sort of loomed there in his usual disconcerting fashion until Rodney finally snapped, "Yes? What?"

Ronon continued to loom.

"Oh, right, your power cell. I forgot." Rodney rummaged around in a few bins on the far bench, looking for the spare he'd been repairing last week, then remembered that the cell which had been in Ronon's blaster was the spare; the old one had been lost in a regrettable but wholly unavoidable incident which had been in no way Rodney's fault.

"I'll have to replicate you a new one," he called over his shoulder. "Be ready in the morning."

Ronon nodded, and turned to go. Rodney thought of something.

"Hey, Ronon?"

He turned back. "Yeah?"

"Still got your cat?"

Ronon smiled. "Yeah. I'm training him to attack my enemies."

Rodney rubbed his temples. "Ronon—"

"Yeah?"

"—never mind," he said, at length. He shook his head. "Night."

"Night."

"Interesting," Rodney muttered to himself, after Ronon had left. "That must mean — huh." He opened his laptop and scanned a couple of files. Nobody had reported android sightings — or the appearance of new objects — since the modified Replicator code had gone into effect; it seemed to have worked, minor glitches and attempts to take over the city aside, which meant Ronon's kitten must have been a one-time creation, rather than a dynamically generated one like Teyla's sparring partner. Which made sense, really, since the level of computational complexity, not to mention the power, required to model a human being with the semblance of higher brain functions would have to be much more intensive than that to create a relatively simple animal like a cat. Even Zelenka could probably have done it: subroutines for eating, sleeping and chasing moving objects, and they'd be most of the way there already. (Come to think of it, they'd be most of the way to simulating Ronon. A few extra Marines wouldn't be too hard, either; this could be worth looking into. Rodney made a mental note.)

He spent forty-five minutes checking over the data the program had returned before running haywire, and then another hour beginning to take apart the device Lorne's team had retrieved from the ruins on P7X-467, which he'd been hoping was some kind of ultra-compact Ancient energy source but was turning out to look more like an ultra-compact Ancient nose-hair trimmer. Around one he finally gave up and hit the sack. John didn't come by that night, either, but then, it wasn't like they had a date, or anything. No big deal.

*

[ part two ]

SGA: Getting Lost Is Easier Than Losing Your Mind (2/2).

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 20:21:44 GMT

[ part one ]

*

"I can't believe we're wearing dresses again."

"Robes," John corrected, shading his eyes against the sun.

Rodney gave him a pained look.

"Manly robes."

"Manly lavender robes?"

John nodded firmly. "Manly lavender robes."

"I like them," Ronon interjected. "Nice and... airy."

"Aaaand there's Unwanted Mental Image Number 69,105. Thanks." Rodney rubbed his temples with two fingers; sweat was already beginning to prickle at his hairline, and judging by the sun's position, noon still had to be more than an hour away.

"Actually, I kind of like them too." John fingered the linen folds thoughtfully. "I feel like they should come with light-sabers, though."

Ronon's face lit up at that idea. "Think they'll let us keep 'em?"

Rodney groaned, and crouched to scan the grass for alien vermin before taking a seat. "How much longer do we have to wait around here, anyway?"

"Relax, would you?" John squinted against the sun, shading his face with his eyes. "What I really want to know is, why does Teyla get to wear pants?"

Rodney yanked a handful of grass from the ground and threw it at John's lavender-robed back. "Maybe they know she doesn't shave her legs," he muttered. His speedy death was averted by the timely outbreak of chanting and cymbal-clashing from the east.

As the procession approached, John poked Rodney in the ribs. "Stand up straight, McKay. This is what we're here for."

The clearing they'd been sent to wait in was about the size and shape of Atlantis' Jumper bay, maybe twice as long as it was wide; they'd been directed to the west side, where the cleared jungle floor was carpeted with thick grass, while the opposite end featured a raised wooden platform atop hard-packed dirt. The platform was the obvious destination of the winding procession, and presumably once they got there the speeches would begin, and the ridiculous invocations to whatever spirits or trees or blinking LEDs they worshipped on this wretched planet, and—

Huh.

Okay, so, not so much with the speeches, more with the — huh.

If Ronon's eyebrows went up any higher, Rodney thought, they'd fall off his face. He tilted his head sideways, as though trying to orient his view. "That looks really, uh—"

"—unsanitary," Rodney supplied, already feeling faintly nauseated just from looking at the spectacle before them. He couldn't make out a lot of faces, but there were way, way too many limbs on that dais. "Can we get out of here, already?" he hissed in John's direction. "Far be it from me to forsake our continuing mission to explore every nymphomaniac planet and seek out every polygamist cult in the Pegasus Galaxy, but those mysterious energy readings won't just locate themselves, you know."

"Once the ritual's done," John hissed back, without tearing his eyes from the scene before them. "It'd be rude to leave in the middle."

"Sacrilegious," Ronon added. "Culturally insensitive."

Rodney looked at Teyla. Teyla returned an equally unimpressed look. He threw up his hands and started trying to figure out what the blonde twins on the side were doing with what looked suspiciously like a feather duster.

After some indeterminate interval, a gong sounded and the orgy ended as suddenly as it had began. Men and women rose from the platform, brushed leaves from their shoulders and wandered out of the clearing. The village elder, a squat, balding guy with bright green eyes and a bit of a paunch, extricated himself from one of the blonde girls and jogged over to their end of the field, round face wreathed in bliss. He was extending a hand, and Rodney nearly fainted at the prospect of having to shake it before he realized it was John, as their own glorious leader, who would be subject to that particular honour.

"The day is blessed," said the elder happily. "Many sons will come of this."

"And hopefully a ZPM," Rodney said under his breath. The elder looked his way, inquiring.

"I said, 'hopefully they'll be strapping young men.'"

"Ah," nodded the elder politely. He gestured to his left, where a narrow opening indicated a path into the jungle. "Please." He bowed; John bowed; Teyla and Ronon bowed; John elbowed Rodney; Rodney bowed; they were finally on their way.

Five hours later they were back in the gate room, and Rodney was nursing a rash from some plants he'd made the mistake of brushing up against, a scraped elbow from where he'd tripped over a hidden step in the ruins, and a sour mood thanks to the utter lack of ZPMs on M3L-494. John and Teyla, who'd both managed to pick up the same rash, accompanied Rodney to the infirmary.

"Haven't seen you for a while," Dr. Keller remarked as she swiped at Rodney's elbow with disinfectant. "Normally you're in here at least a couple of times a week."

"I have a dangerous job," Rodney snapped. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing," Keller said mildly, but she was smiling. "Just wondering if that Ancient program found a cure for hypochondria."

"Oh, very funny."

Keller finished bandaging his elbow and handed him a jar of ointment for the rash. "Twice a day, and come back if it's not gone in a week."

"Thanks," Rodney grumbled. John hopped down off the opposite bed and followed Rodney out into the corridor. They walked in silence for a while, and when they stopped it took Rodney a second to realize they were already outside John's quarters.

"Hey, want to hang out for a bit?" John asked abruptly. "Play a little Rock Band?"

Subtle, Sheppard, Rodney thought, but he tried not to smirk openly. Play it cool.

"Sure," he said casually. "My place?" Because it was always his place, even though they were right outside John's quarters. Doing it at John's place would, like, mean something.

"Nah," said John. "We're right here. C'mon in." He turned, palming the door controls.

Huh, Rodney thought, I guess this means we're taking it to the next level, and was too busy trying to parse the knotted feeling in his stomach to realize he'd stopped still on the threshold of John's quarters.

"Rodney?" John had turned around and was giving him an odd look.

"Oh. Right. Sorry." He shook his head and stepped inside. The door swooshed shut behind him, and three more steps took him close enough to grab a handful of John's T-shirt and pull him into a hungry kiss. "God, I've missed this," he murmured against John's ear a moment later.

"Rodney," John said again, as Rodney started to mouth his way down the curve of John's throat, "Rodney, stop." He managed to get his hands on Rodney's shoulders, and pushed him away so they were standing face to face. He kept his hands on Rodney's shoulders, though, and Rodney had to fight down the momentary (but nonetheless profoundly frightening) urge to put his own on John's waist, high-school-dance style.

He took a deep breath. "Listen, before you say anything, I just want to tell you that I — I'm okay with this, if it's what you really want. We can, uh. You know. Make it official."

John blinked. "Come again?"

"I mean — I thought, you know, you inviting me here, when we normally, you know—" Rodney waved his hand a little, feeling his cheeks begin to flush "—at my place. I thought this meant you wanted to take it to the next level." He paused. "Like, uh. Like a relationship, or — or whatever."

"Whoa, Rodney." John frowned, taking a step back. "What?"

"Well, this — this thing, whatever you want to call it, between us, it's been going on for a while now — and believe me, it's great. Don't get me wrong, I'm fine with things just the way they are, and if you want to just, uh, just keep things physical — what I mean to say is—"

"Look, Rodney, I don't know exactly what you think has been happening here, but—"

"—I think I'm in love with you," Rodney blurted out, just as John finished with "—there isn't anything going on between us."

They stared at each other for a beat, and then Rodney said "Oh, God," because it was starting to dawn on him that something was really, really wrong here, and the fact that he'd just invoked a deity and confessed he was in love with John Sheppard, Captain Hetero, wasn't even the half of it.

"Wait, so." John rubbed his chin. "What — uh. What is it you think's been going on here, exactly?" His hand made kind of a tentative back-and-forth gesture between himself and Rodney, but everything about his body language still screamed get away and back off and don't even think about touching me, you perverted lunatic.

"So we've never, I mean." Rodney could feel the flush rising in his cheeks again. "We've never been, uh. In—intimate." He winced a little; chalk up one more on the list of words he'd never thought he'd hear himself say out loud.

"Have we ever 'been intimate'? Rodney—" Now John was rubbing his temples, like he was getting a headache. Rodney could sympathize.

"Have we ever fucked, okay? Have we ever done it. The horizontal Monster Mash. The nasty. The beast with two backs. The—"

Now John was just staring.

"Oh, fuck," said Rodney, with feeling.

"Is this the part where you ask me if you're Tyler Durden? Because—"

Rodney glared. "Does this really strike you as the time for comedy?"

"Sorry."

Rodney shook his head, still trying to dislodge the jackhammer behind his eyes. "But it," he tried. "It, it smelled like — and it—" He could actually feel his face crumpling. "God, I am such an idiot."

He realized, distantly, that John was trying to say something, but the words were drowned out by the combined noise of his own jumbled excuses and the desperate rushing static in his ears. Constructive interference, he thought hysterically. Those three or four steps backward seemed to take a lifetime, but finally Rodney's fumbling hand found the door controls behind his back and he escaped into the hallway. It wasn't until he was back in his own room that he thought to wonder what John had been saying, or why he'd stepped forward at the last minute, as though to stop Rodney from going.

*
"Rodney."

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

"Rodney!"

Someone who rolled his 'R's.

"The fine structure constant is exactly 1/137," said Zelenka.

Rodney's eyes snapped open.

"Did you sleep here?"

He looked around, trying to orient himself. He could see — keys. Keyboard. Mouse. His desk.

He peeled his face off the keyboard, wincing. "Looks that way." His jaw cracked uncomfortably as he spoke. "Ow."

Zelenka looked like he wasn't sure whether to suggest psychiatric help or just take a picture of Rodney's embossed face to include in the next Atlantis newsletter.

"I was working on—" He fumbled around on his desk until he found the pad of paper he'd been sketching equations on last night. "Here. According to my calculations, we can make the jumpers' power systems almost 30% more efficient by switching them over to a plasma-based energy grid."

Zelenka scanned the pad. "Yes, but how would we get around—"

Rodney grabbed the pad back and flipped through the first couple of pages. "Here," he said, pointing. "We could modify a few of the power relays Lorne's team brought back from 467 into flow modulators."

"Hm," Zelenka said. He regarded Rodney over the top of his glasses. "This is good, Rodney."

"Of course it's good." He got out of his chair, cautiously stretching his neck, and headed for the door. "Dig up those relays, would you? I'll grab us some coffee."

Zelenka frowned. "Don't you have a mission?" 

And that was right about when Rodney woke all the way up and remembered why he'd fallen asleep on his keyboard last night. What had happened before that. Why going on a mission with John Sheppard was currently ranking somewhere between get eaten by lions and ballroom dancing on his personal to-do list.

"Yeah. I — yes." He rubbed his forehead. "I forgot."

Zelenka was still frowning. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Rodney swatted his concern away. "I'm fine. I just didn't sleep well." The coffee idea, at least, still seemed like a good one. "We'll start when I get back from the mission," he called back over his shoulder, and made for the mess hall.

He was halfway to their usual table when he glanced up and caught sight of John, already seated. Their eyes caught for a split second before they both looked away, and Rodney quickly put his tray down at the nearest table. Two botanists and Dr. Baywatch looked up at him, visibly alarmed, but Rodney ignored them and chose a seat which would put his back to Sheppard's table.

"So," he said, pulling his chair up, "what's new with you guys?"

Three faces regarded him with a mixture of confusion and horror. Rodney beamed in return and dug into his scrambled eggs.

He made a point of being late to the mission briefing, figuring Elizabeth's exasperation was preferable to the possibility of having to stand around making small talk; he took a seat as far away from Sheppard as possible while remaining out of the line of direct eye contact, and bit the inside of his cheek raw rather than speak up to argue with every idiotic suggestion which came across the table.

As they rose at the end of the briefing, Elizabeth cleared her throat. "Rodney, step into my office a moment, would you?"

The others left; Rodney lingered, arms folded over his chest.

"Are you feeling all right? You were awfully quiet in there."

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Why does everybody keep asking me that?"

Elizabeth looked solicitous, rather than annoyed. Bad sign. "Look, I know you've been pushing yourself pretty hard lately. I'm sure Colonel Sheppard could spare you on this one if you need a break."

"I'm fine," he repeated. "Although if I wait much longer they might leave without me anyway."

She sighed. "Well, let me know if you change your mind. Even you deserve a day off every now and then, Rodney."

"Right. Well, I'd better, uh." He pointed over his shoulder. Elizabeth nodded his dismissal.

Ronon, Teyla, and Dr. Keller were waiting in the jumper bay; Sheppard was already in the pilot's seat. They were headed to ML5-665, distributing medical supplies to allies whose village had been struck by a plague. Rodney took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together briskly.

"All set?"

Teyla and Keller nodded. "Shotgun," Ronon called, and for the first time he could remember, Rodney's sigh was one of relief, not exasperation.

*

Really, it wasn't so bad.

Sheppard hardly looked at him all day, and since Rodney's heart only turned handsprings in his chest when Sheppard looked at him, it really wasn't so bad at all.

See? It won't be so bad, he thought. They'd just be casually-acquainted colleagues, working with a minimum of unnecessary conversation. Probably get a lot more done, really. And he'd have more time for projects again, and he could eat as much garlic bread as he wanted on Thursday nights, and nobody would hog the covers. (Okay, so admittedly Sheppard — fake-Sheppard, he corrected himself — had never actually done that, but he was probably just lulling Rodney into a false sense of security so he could start stealing them once Rodney's guard was down.) Really, the only thing he regretted was that he hadn't seen through the duplicate sooner. After all, it was pretty absurd. Him and Sheppard? Honestly? How had he fallen for that one? And where did some stupid Ancient device get off deciding that was what he really needed in his life? And—

Ronon snapped his fingers in front of Rodney's face. "McKay!"

"Yes, yes, sorry." He held out his arms, and Ronon handed him a box which really didn't look big enough to contain the weight of a small elephant, but apparently looks could be deceiving. Rodney staggered slightly, regained his balance, gave Ronon a pre-emptive glare which only made him snicker more, and set off for the village.

It was three or four in the afternoon before they had all the supplies unloaded and transferred to the village, and dusk by the time they'd gotten things distributed and explained their use. There had been a couple of close moments, where he'd turned to take a box from Ronon and found Sheppard there instead, or looked up across the village square and accidentally met his eyes, but each time Rodney had managed to turn away before Sheppard could do more than open his mouth, and Sheppard never pushed it. This is good, he thought. Professional. And that pain in his stomach was just because he was hungry.

Things stayed professional, actually, for the entire mission, and it wasn't until they were climbing out of the jumper that Sheppard blew their unspoken arrangement by jogging after Rodney and putting a hand on his shoulder in that way — Rodney knew, because he did it, too — which was meant to look as casual as possible while actually being anything but.

"Listen, Rodney, can we—"

"Sorry, very busy, got to go see about a thing," Rodney half-shouted, and dashed from the jumper bay. Oh, yeah, handled that well, he thought.

*

Ronon was alone when Rodney entered the gym that night, and engrossed in his stick-twirling, so Rodney just lingered in the doorway, trying to look casual, until Ronon noticed him.

He blinked, and checked over each shoulder before looking back at Rodney. "Are you lost?"

"Funny. No, just thought I'd get in a little weapons practice."

Ronon looked dubious.

"Fine, I couldn't sleep. Thought I might find you here. See if you wanted to watch a movie or something."

Ronon thought for a second. "Temple of Doom?"

Rodney shrugged. "Sure, whatever." He spotted movement in his peripheral vision: Ronon's cat. Ronon followed his glance, and his face lit up.

"Hey, let me show you what I've been teaching him."

Rodney sighed. "You know—"

"Attack!"

Ronon Jr. sat down, licked a paw and began swiping it methodically over his face.

Ronon frowned and tried again, more firmly. "Attack!"

The cat looked up at Ronon, then at Rodney. He wandered over, butted his head against Rodney's leg a few times, then flopped onto the ground and began to purr. Rodney crouched down and began to rub his exposed belly.

He noticed something, and looked up. "Ronon, you know this cat's a girl, right?"

"No he's not," said Ronon. "I named him myself."

Rodney blinked. "Yes, but I mean, biologically. This cat is female."

"No."

Rodney shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Who's a good kitty?"

*

"—and now, imagine that you could deconvolute all those superimposed signals by transforming them from the time domain to the frequency domain. Wouldn't that be cool?"

Three pairs of brown eyes flickered to each other, then back to Rodney. "No," they agreed.

Rodney made a face. "Oh, get lost, you little—" He could see Teyla frowning at him in the distance, and hurriedly revised his epithet. "—uh, angels."

The angels scampered off. Ronon remained, sitting in the forked trunk of a tree as though that were anything but desperately uncomfortable.

"I thought you hated kids," he remarked, pulling a few leaves off a nearby branch and letting them fall to the ground.

"Yes, well, I hate weddings more. At least this way I managed to avoid that." A jerk of his head indicated the wreath of delicate orange blossoms perched atop Ronon's dreads.

Ronon grinned, as if to say that's what you think, but didn't actually say anything. Rodney wandered over to lean against the trunk next to him, and began pulling leaves off the tree with considerably more dissatisfaction than Ronon had been putting into the effort.

He still wasn't even clear on how they'd ended up at this stupid wedding at the first place. It wasn't like it was Teyla herself getting married, or a member of her family — even that, he thought, would have been pushing it; instead it was an Athosian couple he couldn't pick out of a lineup and would have gladly gone his entire life without ever meeting, if only Elizabeth hadn't thought a nice, relaxing trip to the flea-infested mainland was just what they needed, not to mention a valuable cultural experience.

(Rodney figured it would be safe to say that he'd never met a valuable cultural experience he'd liked. He wasn't quite sure what a less-than-valuable one would be, but he suspected he'd hate those, too.)

"At least we don't have to wear dresses," he muttered. Ronon raised an eyebrow. "Robes, whatever."

Ronon smiled again at that, and Rodney bolted to his feet, struck by a horrible thought. "We don't, do we? Oh, that is so the last straw. I don't care what Elizabeth says—"

Teyla had been making her way over to their end of the clearing, and as he caught sight of her, Rodney folded his arms and turned his invective on a more immediate target.

"This isn't the sort of wedding where everyone has to wear stupid robes, is it?"

"Of course not, Rodney," Teyla said, in her best placating voice. "Only the bride and groom need wear the kinshwala. The guests may choose any attire they wish."

"Well, good, because—"

"And yourself, of course," she went on. "I know how much you enjoy exploring such traditions, and the bride and groom were only too happy to make an exception."

Rodney felt a mild imploding sensation coming on.

"I hear it's a great honour," Ronon added solemnly.

"Great honour? Great honour? You know, I put up with a lot of — oh, I see." He broke off, fingers still half-raised for the enumeration of the daily tribulations of Rodney McKay, because he'd finally noticed the way Ronon and Teyla were clutching at each other's arms, doing their best not to expire with laughter. They weren't having much success, he saw.

Rodney narrowed his eyes. "Hilarious," he said, in a voice whose pH he'd have estimated at approximately 2.

"Come on," said Ronon, still wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. He slung an arm around Rodney's shoulders. "We wouldn't want to miss the ceremony. Besides, you still haven't gotten your wreath," he added, too low for Teyla to hear.

Rodney scowled.

Sheppard was there, of course; his wreath was more of a rose-pink to Ronon's coral, and Rodney had a wisecrack about Springtime Dream all queued up — and then suddenly he remembered, and that joke was really, really not funny; the opposite of funny, in fact. He sat down so quickly he felt like he'd actually deflated, and at the end of the ceremony he set about getting drunk for the third time in his life.

*

"Hand me the — yes." He took the proffered tool and made a minor adjustment, then scrambled out of the hatch. "Try it now."

Zelenka hit a few keys on the control panel and swore under his breath. "Still no good," he called.

"Damn." Rodney used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his brow.

"Maybe another three or four microns."

"Yes, I know."

The transporters weren't, admittedly, an essential service in the food-air-water scheme of things, but having them suddenly go on strike wasn't exactly convenient, either. They'd been malfunctioning on and off for a couple of weeks already, but other things kept seeming to crop up and distract Rodney from tackling them personally. This, he realized, was yet another benefit of his renewed singlehood — more time to work on important things.

He added it to the mental list, just above getting reacquainted with right hand; then he wiped his brow one more time, retrieved the harmonic modulator from Zelenka, and slid back into the conduit.

*

Mostly the only part that hurt was the way, twelve or thirteen times on any given day, Rodney would see something, or hear something, or figure something out, and before he remembered he'd think to himself: I'll have to remember to tell John—

Oh.

*

"What are you and Sheppard fighting about, anyway?"

Rodney started, tearing his eyes from The Empire Strikes Back. "Huh?"

"You and Sheppard," Ronon repeated, stuffing a handful of approximate popcorn into his mouth. "You're fighting."

"No, we aren't."

"You haven't said a word to each other all week."

"Has it been that long? I hadn't noticed."

Ronon shrugged. "Whatever. I just thought—"

"Oh, God, you're not going to ask if I want to talk, are you?"

Ronon looked, if possible, even more appalled than Rodney had been by that thought.

"Good," said Rodney. "There's nothing to talk about, anyway."

*

I can't believe this, he kept saying to himself, over and over, because the only alternative was saying it to him, and—

"I can't believe this," Sheppard said. The tone was different, though: it was the fact that they were stuck twenty kilometres from the gate, with night falling and a methane-filled swamp to cross, that he couldn't believe — not the part about how it was just him and Rodney stuck here together.

Rodney didn't say anything, which was his general policy these days when Sheppard was around, or when he just didn't have anything to say. Being so quiet was kind of a strange experience for him; he wasn't sure he liked it, but he knew he wouldn't like the alternative.

"Well," Sheppard said, sounding faintly queasy, "Guess we'd better head this way." He motioned into the swamp. Rodney dropped his head wearily, but bit back the complaint.

They got about a hundred metres before the first pocket of methane went up in a fireball; it lit up the night with ten times the wattage of the faint crescent moons, turning Sheppard's grim face golden, but in an instant it was gone, and Rodney was back in the dimness, momentarily blinded as his pupils adjusted. Another twenty metres, another, smaller burst of light; and another, and then none at all for quite some distance. They went perhaps a kilometre, skirting around the mucky perimeter where the ground was solid enough to release their boots with only a mild tug. Rodney, who felt like he'd spent a week on the Devil's Stairmaster, had paused for a moment, wheezing with his hands on his thighs, and was debating the merits of opening his mouth to say something — and just then the marsh fire bloomed, vast and cruciferous, not five feet from where Sheppard stood up ahead.

"John!" The exclamation was out before Rodney could stop it, and the burn in his legs forgotten as he tried to close the distance. The ground sucked him down, his haste turned into a mockery of itself, but a few more strides took him up to where he'd seen John fall in the orange light.

"John?" he called again, hating himself for it, hating the querulous note — but a groan came back, and a cough, and then a "Yeah, Rodney," and it was all right, and Rodney ran a hand through his hair and didn't even think about how filthy it was, and oh, thank God, he thought, because now he could see John getting to his hands and knees, muddy but intact.

"Well," Sheppard said, once he was back on his feet, in the wry voice which said he was about to make some self-deprecating crack — but Rodney never found out what it would have been, because a cough broke in, and Sheppard grimaced, and somewhere in there they both remembered that they weren't friends anymore, and let go of the shoulders and forearms neither of them had realized they were clutching, and Rodney looked fiercely away.

Sheppard coughed again. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, huh," he said, and all the bad ideas in their recent history flashed through Rodney's mind for a second before he realized Sheppard was talking about hiking through a gas-filled swamp in pitch darkness. He looked around, trying to orient himself; there were pockets of solid ground here and there around this stretch of the perimeter, where they'd been able to extricate themselves and walk for a few minutes at a time on solid ground; some of them went quite far back into the hills, but all ultimately came up against the cliff face, and none offered a plausible alternative route back to the gate, so every time they'd been forced to return to the swamp. But Rodney seemed to remember—

"I think there were some caves back that way," he gestured, even though he was only half convinced that his mind wasn't playing tricks, or that Sheppard would even be able to see what he was pointing at. He was, at the very least, sure that they had crossed a patch of solid ground not too far back, and at this point he'd pretty much be okay with flopping down on the grass and passing out for a week or two.

Sheppard seemed to get the idea, because he turned in that direction too, and in twenty minutes they were stumbling up a slope and onto cool, blessedly wet grass; Rodney unslung his pack and undid his tac vest, fingers shaking with exhaustion, and flung both onto the ground nearby. He was halfway to pulling his shirt off, too, before he remembered again, and thought better of it. Instead he let himself fall prone into the cool grass, not even caring that his face was inches from soil teeming with microbes and worms, until Sheppard roused himself and told Rodney to come on, because there was a cave, after all. He got up, in the end, not so much because he cared about sleeping in a cave rather than out here, but rather because the minutes lying immobile had allowed him to notice that he was ravenous, and getting up would mean finding his pack and the MREs stashed inside; still, he got up, and having gathered pack and vest, followed Sheppard into the cave.

It took Rodney nine minutes to wolf down two MREs, Sheppard ten to get a fire going; after that it took about thirty seconds for things to get awkward, and thirty more for Rodney to exaggerate a yawn, grab his bedroll, and announce his intention to sleep until morning.

The good news was that all that leg-lifting in the swamp, coupled with a full belly, meant Rodney actually got a full night's sleep for the first time in weeks; the bad news was that when he woke up in the morning, he was still on the damp and decidedly un-ergonomic floor of a cave which smelled of sulphur, and rescue was nowhere in sight. Sheppard was poking up the fire again, though, and in the slanted light of morning a trickle of water could be seen down the far wall, which meant that they could bathe and refill their canteens and — oh, blessed thing — have something bearing at least a taxonomical resemblance to coffee, because Rodney never left Atlantis without a couple of packets of instant stashed in his pack.

The tally came out positive; Rodney got up. Breakfast and coffee were the first orders of business; those taken care of, he splashed enough water on his face to deal with the worst of the dirt, scrubbed a little more through his hair, and did his best to stretch the knots out of his back, with little success. He squinted as he stepped out of the cave. Two moons, two suns: it was early, but the air was already thick with humidity and that hot, rotting marsh-smell. Sheppard came out with his sunglasses on; Rodney mentally kicked himself, and raised a hand to shield his face. At least he'd remembered sunscreen.

By midday the heat was growing unbearable, but they were more than halfway around the swamp, and when Rodney looked up he could see a patch of darker, denser green up ahead, and every few steps he would look up to check that it was still there, and it would grow larger and more distinct, until they were only metres from the shade of the jungle.

Bushwhacking was hard work, but at least it was a different sort of hard work, and even if the air was still close, it was decidedly cooler. By keeping to the fringes of the trees, ducking out periodically, and checking the sun's position overhead, they could make sure they were still following the circumference of the marsh, heading in the direction of the gate. They tried the comms periodically, in case anyone had come to find them, but either Teyla and Ronon hadn't made it back yet, or their signal wasn't getting through, so they plodded on. By mid-afternoon the heat was easing off, and they stopped in a clearing, sitting with their backs against enormous tree-trunks for long enough to eat something and remember what breathing felt like. And once again, silence fell between them thicker than the humid air — and that, maybe, was why, after they'd gotten up again, Rodney found himself doing something really, really stupid.

"Listen," he called, cringing as he did it, but trying to put some kind of resolve into his voice. "Can we, like, talk about this?"

Sheppard, who was a few paces ahead, didn't break stride or look around.

"Sheppard?"

"Oh, is now a good time for you?"

"Look, it's not like—" Rodney sighed. "I'm not going to jump you in the showers, or anything."

"Yeah, I wasn't really worried," Sheppard replied vaguely, shading his eyes from the sun. "Pretty sure I could take you."

"No, I mean—" He clenched his fists, frustrated. "It was just that stupid program. It didn't mean anything."

"Uh-huh," Sheppard said. "Watch out for that branch."

"I'm not even gay," he snapped. Which hardly needed to be said — except that, of course, it did — and really, what had he ever done to the universe to deserve this, anyway?

"No," Sheppard said slowly, the way he might speak to a particularly stupid child, or Rodney might speak to a sociologist. "No, I know you're not."

"Well. All right," Rodney said, a little gruffly, because there was something in his throat. He looked around, trying to judge the position of the sun, and began beating back bushes to his left.

"Come on. This way."

Sheppard followed, silent.

*

Teyla, ersatz banjo in hand, caught him leaving his quarters on a Friday night. "We have not seen much of you lately, Rodney," she tried. "Will you not join us for a game of Texas Fold'Em?"

"It's Hold'Em," he said tiredly, "and no."

He couldn't quite decide if the look she was giving him were sympathetic, pitying, exasperated, or some mixture of the three. She did begin, tentatively, "Rodney—"

—but couldn't quite seem to figure out how to follow that up. He recognized the look: it was one he'd been seeing a lot of lately. Instead she took him into a brief, cautious hug, and went away without saying another word.

*

The weak link, as it turned out, was the simple fact that Rodney McKay was the worst person in two galaxies at playing it cool. He lasted precisely seventeen days, nine hours and twenty-six minutes, and at 1:07 on a Tuesday morning he went to the infirmary and begged Dr. Biro for a sedative. She told him to walk for an hour and try to calm the heck down, already, and if he came back and still couldn't sleep she'd give him something. He walked for seven minutes before finding himself in front of Sheppard's quarters; the courage to knock took another ten.

"Rodney." It wasn't a question, just a statement loaded with genuine surprise. Sheppard was in checkered boxers and a rumpled white T-shirt with the hem coming undone, and half of his hair was sticking up and half flattened, and Rodney, being a rational guy, knew that his heart couldn't really turn somersaults, but—

"Coming in?"

Rodney started, but stepped inside. His hands hung at his sides; he didn't want to cross them over his chest, couldn't reach towards Sheppard. He didn't know what to do with them at all.

"So," Sheppard said, pointedly, and Rodney remembered that it was, in fact, one in the morning, and he was the one who had come here — he was the one who had started this whole mess — and that if he wanted to talk about it, he might actually have to, like, talk — and this whole thing was seeming like a worse idea by the second, but the door had closed behind him, so he couldn't leave now.

"Uh," he began. Eloquent, he thought. "I just wanted — look, can we just hash this out and get it over with already? Because I've gotta say, this has not been the most fun month I've ever had, and I'd really appreciate it if we could just get over this whole, you know, thing, and — and move on."

Sheppard folded his arms across his chest; apparently he had no qualms about appearing confrontational. "Well, Rodney, you're the genius; you tell me. How exactly does a guy get over the fact that one of his best friends would rather he were an alien blow-up doll who sucks a mean dick?"

Rodney flushed, and he could feel his eyebrows knitting together in that way he remembered from schoolyard fights when he had to try desperately not to cry, because as much as the punches hurt, crying would have really crossed the line. He looked down, then up, over Sheppard's shoulder; he could feel his throat working, but it wasn't in a way which had anything to do with speech.

Sheppard sighed, rubbing a hand through the flat part of his hair so that it stuck up again. "I just — I don't know, Rodney. You have to admit, it's kinda hard to stay friends with someone after something like that."

Rodney mumbled something, too soft for Sheppard to hear.

"What?"

"I said, it wasn't like that." He rubbed his forehead. Sheppard just looked at him.

"It wasn't — I let — I mean, I wanted—" He broke off and looked at Sheppard for a moment, as though maybe, just maybe, he could will this entire thing away — because he could live with being in love with his best friend, as long as he still had a best friend — and then looked away again.

Sheppard sighed again, tiredly. "Look, Rodney. I know it wasn't really me you wanted those things from. I get it. Everyone needs — whatever. It's just kind of hard to go back to talking to you every day like I don't know what happened."

"I know," Rodney said, and it was plaintive and he didn't really care. "I know. Do you think it's easy for me? Christ, I was such an idiot, and it was my stupid subconscious in the first place, and believe me, it's not something I want publicized either. And I know it's worse for you because you're in the stupid Air Force, but—"

"That has nothing to do with it."

"Yes, but I know there's — I mean — I know the fact that it was another guy thinking of you like that, I know that had to be — what I'm trying to say is—"

"Rodney?" Sheppard craned his head down until he could catch Rodney's eyes. "Listen. That has nothing to do with it."

"Okay, yeah, but—"

Sheppard was still looking at him like that, and now Rodney was starting to feel like he'd maybe missed something here. Something important. He replayed the last few seconds of conversation in his head, and—

Oh, no way.

No way.

"You're gay?" he breathed.

Sheppard flushed, but didn't say anything.

"Oh, quit looking at me like that," he blurted after a moment, and Rodney realized he was still staring. Sheppard rubbed a hand over his face, scratching stubble. "Look, I'm not going to jump you in the showers, either." There was just the trace of wryness in that, but it made Rodney feel better — it shouldn't have, really, but it did. "I've learned a little something called self-control over the years, Rodney. You should look it up sometime."

"Ha, ha," Rodney sneered, but it was getting harder, he noticed, to put his heart into the sarcasm.

"Look, I just thought — it's hard for me to deal with the idea that you wanted something that was almost me, but wasn't. Hell, it's hard for me to talk about this stuff at all. But I'll try to get over it." Sheppard sighed again. "I'm not making any promises, but." He extended his hand.

Rodney took it, but didn't shake; he didn't let go, either. His mind was still parsing, still ticking, but now that he'd managed to click it over into that analytical mode, Sheppard's words were falling into place like pieces of a puzzle, and the real revelation was just there, just at the edge of his mind, and he wasn't letting go until he—

"Oh my God, you idiot, you're in love with me!"

Sheppard looked up, startled — but again, he didn't say a word, and he didn't drop Rodney's hand.

Rodney stared.

"But — but—" His mouth, he noticed, was doing that thing where it opened but no sound came out.

"I didn't want to break up the team," Sheppard said, finally.

Rodney stared harder.

Sheppard shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I've seen what happens in these situations, and I just — there are just so many things—" He shrugged, rubbed the back of his head with his hand. "I didn't want that to happen to us," he said quietly.

Rodney was still staring. Sheppard looked sort of pained.

"Seriously?" Rodney said. "Seriously?"

"What?" asked Sheppard, defensive — and that just put Rodney over the edge.

"What kind of a — Jesus, who actually acts like that in real life? What kind of reason is that to — that has got to be the stupidest goddamn—"

"Rodney?"

"—I mean, of all the idiotic, self-important—"

"Rodney," and now defensive was turning to offensive, with that sort of low warning edge which said Rodney was maybe three or four syllables from some serious physical pain, here, and—

"—huh?"

"Shut up," said John, and kissed him.

Rodney permitted this for about eight seconds — long enough for John to get his tongue past Rodney's lips and one hand up into Rodney's hair — before he broke away with a firm hand on John's chest. "—mm — but — honestly," he said, in what he really hoped was a stern voice. "You'd better promise me you're not going to do anything that stupid ever again. That sort of self-sacrificing bullshit doesn't even fly on TV."

"Shut up, Rodney," said John, sounding even more aggrieved than he had before — and this time he punctuated the order by unbuckling Rodney's belt with equal firmness.

"I think I liked you better when you were a robot designed to fulfill my every need," Rodney groused, but the hand in his pants was making a compelling argument, so he obeyed anyway.

*

"You'd think it could have at least made me smarter," Rodney mumbled, some time later. John's mattress was definitely inferior — he made a mental note to requisition a new one — but John's hands, pebble-cool against his hip and his belly, went some distance toward compensating for the springs jabbing him in the ribs. And the sheets weren't bad at all.

"That time with the, you know, oh, do that again — I'm pretty sure I almost had an exact solution to the many-electron Schrödinger equation — yes, oh, just there — just a question of — mmmrh — writing it down—"

—and "Rodney," said John, low and impatient, from somewhere in the vicinity of Rodney's armpit, "how about we save overturning the laws of physics for tomorrow?"

—and "Yes, yes, okay," he said, because there was a tomorrow, and there might even be another one after that — and overturned himself to throw an arm around John, instead.

My eternal, inexpressible gratitude is due to randomalia for her performance of duties including but not limited to beta-reading, cheer-leading, and hand-holding through the sundry woes of a first story in a big new fandom. At the risk of sounding trite: I absolutely couldn't have done it without you. Thanks.

It was mentioned to me after I'd written this story that flambeau explores a similar manifestation of Wacky Ancient Tech™ in her excellent story About a lamp; if you've enjoyed my take (or, better, if you haven't), please do go and read hers as well.

Title from The Triangles, "Let's Replace The Cityscapes".

Comments and criticism both welcome; comment below or e-mail athwartships at gmail.

from my heart and from my hand

Sun, 22 Jun 2008 23:58:55 GMT

HEY LET'S START A MEME OKAY

Behind the cut are three Wordle images created from stories I'm currently working on (for assorted values of "working on", natch). One is Hornblower, one Atlantis and one SG-1. Here's how this is going to roll:

1. Pick one (or more) and take a guess at what might be going on. (Or just make something up.) Write at least a one-sentence summary of what you imagine the story to be about.

2. I'll take those summaries -- one from each of the first five commenters, more if inspiration strikes -- and write snippets, which will hopefully bear no resemblance whatsoever to the actual story I'm working on. If your summary nails the actual story, I'll post a snippet of the actual WIP instead.

3. Rinse and ~~repeat~~ repost in your own journal for additional wholesome family fun! (Uh, if you want. No pressure.)

I took the squid thing as a straight-up compliment, but I'm not so sure about the other one

Fri, 20 Jun 2008 01:06:26 GMT

True story: today my hair has been compared to 1. Amy Winehouse's and 2. a squid.

Whirlwind TV update, because that's about all I have the brain cells for these days:

Finished Chuck, which was really some of the most enjoyable television I've watched in a long, long time, and highly recommended, even if the lack of fic makes me a sadface.

Have also watched the first two eps of Swingtown, DON'T JUDGE ME, MOLLY PARKER IS IN IT. Molly Parker is like one part concentrated adorable to one part awesomesauce, shaken over ice with a dash of bitters and poured into a tall, willowy, green-eyed glass. She was the single woman upon whose stunning attractiveness my ex and I ever agreed, and I refuse to believe the internet's scurrilous notion that she was born in Maple Ridge, because she so clearly belongs in the encyclopedia under "Maritimer". (I don't know if I can get behind this red hair business quite yet, though.)

Didn't totally love the pants off the latest Doctor Who, but considering how stellar the rest of the season has been -- like, before this episode I'd've called it one of my favourite seasons of any TV show, ever -- I'm willing to cut them some slack. Also, it's not RTD's fault he has to follow up Steven Moffat, GOD OF TELEVISION; really, anything's going to look kind of lame in comparison. (Although, actually, there's meta to be writ re: how I think RTD is trying to use some of Moffat's tropes but Doing It Wrong, and that's maybe why this episode fell flat for me? but you know. That's basically the meta right there.)

All things considered, sincerely enjoyed the, what, semi-finale? of BSG, for reasons not even limited to Michael Hogan being the most incredible badass acting on television today, and am looking forward to whenever the heck we can expect the back half of the season.

Reason #23458713 to love randomalia: she has just alerted me that S5 of ~~Space Homos: in Space!~~ SGA starts in like, three weeks, WHAT. I was assuming, y'know, October? So now I am making a lot of :D :D :D faces over that.

And uhhhhh I have no real excuse for my failure at photoblog except a) it rained on Tuesday, gross and b) I took some awesome pictures last night but then my camera battery died and I didn't have a chance to recharge it until just now? But some of those will be forthcoming. I TOLD YOU THIS WAS GOING TO END BADLY. Instead of regaling you with further installments of My Cat: An Adventure, then, I'll have to spell things out and say that yesterday I saw a sincerely awesome production of Twelfth Night, set in the 1920s and consequently featuring some of the hottest female drag I have seen in, well, ever. Also a Malvolio so wonderful I could have died. Twice.

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 19:39:53 GMT

1. Been watching Chuck this week, a couple of episodes per night, mostly because I've been too braindead when I finish work to do much else besides park my ass in front of the television box. Unsurprisingly, we're loving it to ridiculous levels, and even less surprisingly, I'd kind of like to maybe read some fic? I've skimmed the Yuletide stories but don't seem to be coming up with much else, but I know people on my flist are into the show and so I thought some of y'all might have a line on the quality goods. I'm pretty much pairing-agnostic, but I'd basically sell my left kidney for something in which Chuck and Awesome partake in some kind of ultra-manly bonding ~~and maybe some ultra-manly making out~~ -- or maybe some quality shenanigans starring Agent ~~Jayne~~ Casey -- and I kind of love Morgan, too -- or, really, anything at all which does a decent job of capturing the hilarity of the show itself. Recs?

2. It occurred to me yesterday afternoon that what I really desire out of life is some sort of widget/extension which would allow me to tag songs on my iPod as I listen to them, and have those tags dynamically compile the songs into playlists, if that makes sense? Like -- I can make playlists on my computer and then sync them, but that's sort of tedious, and I can do the On-The-Go thing, but that's only with one playlist at a time, and I have lots of existing playlists that I'd like to add songs to on the fly. I thought of this because I was listening to something yesterday and thought, "hey, I should add this to my 'quiet time' playlist, but I'll have totally forgotten/become too lazy to do so by the time I get home. There should be a better way to do this!" Naturally, I lack even the remotest semblance of the skillz to make this happen -- but more to the point, this is the internet, which means surely someone else has already written this script/widget/plug-in? Y/N? Bueller?

3. I'm probably only going to last a day or two at this (witness me posting twelve hours late, but whatev), but here,

A week in the life:
1. You must take between 6 and 8 new photographs per day.
2. Your WITL must be consecutive. No skipping days.
3. You must post your photographs at the end of that day, sometime after the last picture is taken. <-- unless you are a special flower like me, in which case rules do not apply
4. Each photograph must have the time taken beneath and a title, with no other explanation.

all the long red lines. 2.46 pm.

all the smoke-like streams. 2.51 pm.

oh, the two white lines. 3.19 pm.

distant gods and faded signs. 3.24 pm.

got telephones for eyes. 7.24 pm.

how does that old song go? 8.35 pm.

those funny little plans. 10.48 pm.

the moral of the story is: lulz

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 02:43:11 GMT

Re: that day off I said I was going to have last week: lol yeah rite. I'm basically working two full-time jobs at the moment, hence my conspicuous absence from these here parts; one of the jobs, however, is dropping from near-full-time to almost-not-at-all-time as of this weekend, which will hopefully mean I'll be around a little more, and back to my usual posting schedule of mental detritus with the occasional smattering of porn.

Here, in the meantime, is a story from this week -- one which I can only hope will serve as the dust-jacket blurb for my future biography, since it basically encapsulates my entire life like some beautiful Zen parable. I was teaching a fourteen-year-old boy about geometry; we wanted to find the perimeter and area of a shape which looked like this:

"So," I prompt, "we need to break this up into three chunks, right?"

Kid nods, and, furrowing his brow in concentration, solemnly copies the figure out of the textbook as follows:

Dear readers, I did not even laugh.

large hard-on collider

paging deepsix (and/or the psychiatric ward)

crosspost y/y?

THINGS I LIKE (a list)

Items.

let's call this my extremely belated Remembrance Day post, okay

less "lolcat", more "ohgodwhycat"

somehow I lack a sass-talking CJ icon, so this'll have to do

Items.

Items.

inquiring minds

BRAIDING TO ~~ENCHANT~~

SGA: Getting Lost Is Easier Than Losing Your Mind (1/2). McKay/Sheppard, NC-17.

SGA: Getting Lost Is Easier Than Losing Your Mind (2/2).

from my heart and from my hand

I took the squid thing as a straight-up compliment, but I'm not so sure about the other one

the moral of the story is: lulz

BRAIDING TO ENCHANT