sga drabblefics: pegasus legoland; lilliputian; blade; tumble
Pegasus Legoland
-
"Thank you, Uncle Rodney!" Torren says. The mixture of awe and giddiness on his face is a pleasure to see.
"You're welcome," Rodney grins back. "Just remember, you have to share."
"I will!" Torren turns to his mother. "Can I play?"
"Of course." Teyla smiles at Rodney. "It's a generous gift; you must have used your cargo allotment on many Daedalus trips for this."
"It's a good investment," Rodney answers. "Ronon's kid will be old enough to play with them any day now." He surveys the room piled and heaped with Legos. "And those over there are mine and John's."
-
"Paone," says John sternly.
Ronon's little girl gazes up at him with big wide eyes full of innocence.
"Take it out of your mouth," John tells her.
She opens her mouth.
John brings out his command voice. "You think I don't know it's under your tongue?"
Her eyes go big and liquidy, her chin trembling.
"Don't give me that look," John implores, command forgotten. "Just spit it out! Please?"
Paone hands him the wet Lego. "Said the magic word!" she beams.
"Still think she's old enough?" asks John.
"I swallowed my fair share of Legos," Rodney admits.
"Wrong answer!"
-
"Uncle John! Uncle Rodney! Build me in!" Torren begs.
"Did you make the walls?" Rodney hands John the tail assembly.
"I made three!"
"Make at least part of the fourth one and we'll come finish it."
"Okay..."
John finishes the rough outline of his helicopter. "There."
"I'm ready! Please please please?" Torren waits in a two-foot-square cubbyhole surrounded by three Lego walls.
John and Rodney attach the partly-built fourth wall and make a roof over him.
Torren stays hidden inside for roughly ninety seconds before jumping up, sending Legos flying: "ROAARRRR!"
"Monster!" Rodney yells obligingly, and flees.
***
Lilliputian
-
The saboteur muttered about being betrayed as the local law officers manacled his hands.
"What kind of punishment will he receive?" Teyla asks, her voice flinty.
"A life of hard labor and little freedom," promises the consul. "We apologize that we didn't detect his treachery in time."
"This could have been an even greater disaster," she answered. "And not just for Dr. McKay. This technology can be very fragile and volatile. You must guard it more carefully."
"Oh, now you tell him," says Rodney's tiny peevish voice from inside John's breast pocket.
"Ease up," John says. "At least it's temporary."
-
John stripped off the bed carefully, his hands gently unwinding each twist and fold. He peered into the pillowcases, under the bed, inside his boots, even in the hollow body of his guitar.
Finally giving up, he activated his comm. "Teyla?" he asked, wincing. "I lost him again."
"Rodney is with me," she replied.
"I got bored," Rodney's small voice added, "so I drove the RC car to Teyla's. I left a note on your book!"
John squinted at the cover of War and Peace. "Come on, it's smaller than a postage stamp! How was I supposed to see that?!"
-
"Hey, what did you use to write that note with?" John asks.
It's a familiar sight: Rodney's laid on his back, working, head and shoulders only half-visible... except it's not an Ancient console, it's Rodney's RC car, and everything's 1/10th normal size. The wires are thick snakes in Rodney's miniature hands.
"I broke the tip off a pencil with a pebble from your boot tread."
John feels his eyes getting shiny-big like an anime character's. "That's... so cute."
"Traitor!" Rodney accuses. "I'm not cute, I'm just small!"
John smirks, "You're both!"
Rodney gives him the tiny finger.
***
Blade
-
The sword was cool in John's hand, its weight perfectly balanced. He slashed and parried, fencing an imaginary master; the weapon moved like an extension of his own body, natural, beautiful, deadly.
"You really are an artist, McKay," he admired.
"An artist and a businessman," McKay answered. "About my fee..."
"You deserve much more than we agreed upon," said John, and directed the sword-tip at McKay's throat.
"Ronon!" McKay implored his bodyguard, ineffectually.
"I'm afraid Ronon has always answered to me," John told him. "I'd heard rumors, and now I know they're true. You are the greatest living swordmaker."
-
"Obviously," said McKay. "And I have plans to create better swords even than the one you're holding, as soon as I finish concocting my new alloy. But I can't make one for you if I'm dead."
"But you'll make it for anyone, if you're alive," John retorted. "I can't let you arm my rivals for duels with masterpieces like this. I have enough scars, thank you very much."
McKay swallowed. "I could be convinced to sell my best weapons only to you."
"Aren't you already convinced?" John asked. "If I were in your position I'd find this blade very persuasive."
-
"We may consider this sword your audition," said John, "and you've won the part. You'll be coming to work for us."
To his astonishment, McKay crossed his arms, his chin lifting high in the air. "I have no intention of going anywhere, least of all to join a pack of brigands."
"Brigands? And what led you to that conclusion?"
"A princely sum goes missing from a royal carriage, and a dark and sinister charmer offers me nearly the same amount to make him a sword-- could it be any more obvious?" McKay sniffed. "I am a genius."
"With swords, yes."
-
John smiled. "With swords, your genius is unparalleled. With people... you could use some improvement. Or were you being clever? It was, in fact, a princely sum."
McKay gaped. "But everyone says the prince is an inbred beanpole, a weakling and an invalid!" He looked at John critically. "I can't speak to the inbred beanpole part, but you're certainly no invalid, nor weak."
"Advantageous if the enemies of the crown think so, though," said John. "Will you return with us to the castle, and become the royal swordmaster?"
McKay bended to one knee, a pleasing sight. "Yes, my liege."
***
Tumble
-
Rodney hates tumbling in the dryer. The heat, the noise, the hapless mishmash of dozens of garments. All that fabric rubbing against fabric, all that static cling!
Not to mention the peril of bra hooks snagging at his soft polyester fibers, or threats from stray items spilling out of pockets. What if tissue shreds get stuck to him? What if there's gum?
"Hey, how come you're all balled up over there?" asks a long black sock somersaulting nearby. "You're never gonna get dry that way."
"Hmph. I'm made from the latest in microfiber polyester blends," says Rodney. "I'll dry."
*
The black sock has the gall to seem amused. "I'm just plain cotton, but I've been around the laundry room a few times... it looks to me like you'll end up with a soggy toe if you don't relax a little."
"I'm perfectly relaxed!" Rodney demurs.
Just then, a sweater softly crowds Rodney against the dreaded outtake vent, where socks disappear forever!
The rush of heat and air overwhelms Rodney. He unfurls and clings to the lint trap with the very fibers of his being.
"Easy! I've got you!" The black sock tugs Rodney back to the safe middle whirl.
*
"I'm John," the black sock says. "That's Teyla, and Ronon." A purple sock and tan sock wiggle their toes at him.
"Rodney." He fluffs himself taller. Up close, John has a fetching green stripe up top, and he's very well knit.
In the tumult, John and Rodney collide.
"Er," says Rodney.
"Nice to meet you," John purrs.
Suddenly Rodney understands the appeal of static cling.
"Wanna pair up?" John suggests.
"We don't match. I'm blue!"
"We're the same length and thickness," says John. "That's what matters."
Once they're folded together with John pressed against his back, Rodney finds he agrees.