One Simple Theme, or, The One About Pancakes: Part One
Title: One Simple Theme, or, The One About Pancakes
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 9,700+
Summary: She said, “The journey will cost you nothing that you are not ready to give,” and blah blah blah, Rodney knew the spiel. Walk through, try not to insult anyone, indulge in a feast of mammoth proportions, try not to get drunk, make nice with the locals, try not to molest Colonel Sheppard. It was all pretty much standard.
This Fic Features: Momentous Pancakes, Crudely Drawn Conclusions, Possible Misuse of the Term 'Puppet Regime,' An Overabundance of Large Hairy Names, Best Friends Being Best Friends Forever, One or Two Actual Serious Parts, and - sadly - No Actual Sex.
A/N: chopchica wanted something non-au, and millefiori wanted a sex-change, and well. I maybe fudged it a bit. Also, I've realized I mainly just write scenes and then string them together with near invisible threads. Hopefully this story makes some sense anyway.
ETA: I keep fiddling with the title. *hates it*
DVD Commentary by siegeofangels.
So, things are like this: SGA fandom is like a dessert potluck, right, and there are a lot of chocolate chip cookies. Which of course is good, right, because we like chocolate chip cookies. skoosiepants is the person who brings cookies, and plunks the plate down, and is all, "Hey, I brought oatmeal-almond with toasted pine nuts and Craisins. . . . What?"
By which I mean, her fic is a little bit different, a little bit unexpected, and quite quite good.
One Simple Theme
-or-
The One About Pancakes
Rodney had been off-world enough times to be leery of temples, shrines, sacred rings, etc. and the festivals, rites, and feasts that usually accompanied them. Still. The First Priestess had mentioned gifts, and gifts could quite possibly include the chocolaty-mocha scented plants that thickly rimmed the village clearing and may or may not be edible. They hadn’t figured that out yet, but Rodney was willing to just bury his nose in the wide, flat leaves and inhale. The entire village smelled like his nana’s house at Christmas.
“Are you certain you wish to do this, Dr. McKay?” Teyla asked, hand cupped over her forehead to block out the nearly blue bright sun. She was staring at the imposing, sand-brown building with a small frown pulling her lips. Six large, blocked symbols ran the length of the arched doorway, and she’d translated them hesitantly as “heart-wise,” “heart-sure,” and “heart-wish” respectively.
Rodney thought the glyph for heart looked an awful lot like Mr. Peanut. Which probably should’ve made him wary, except there were gifts involved, not to mention the wonderful happy blips he was receiving on his datapad that indicated a nicely-sized energy source hidden somewhere in the vicinity. The temple was the most-likely place to start.
“We should wait for Colonel Sheppard and Ronon to return,” Teyla cautioned.
“Presents!” Rodney reminded her cheerfully, and really. All he had to do was walk through the building and be blessed. How hard could that be?
The First Priestess, short and round-faced and reminiscent of a plump hen, moved to stand in front of him, a smile in her eyes even though her mouth was devoutly impassive, and a little girl by her side lifted a wooden bowl above her head, burnt umber liquid staining the sides as it sloshed.
Another bowl, empty and deep, edges curling inward, was held up under his chin. “May your thoughts be clear,” the Priestess intoned melodiously. “May your desires be purely writ.”
She set the bowl at his feet, tipped over onto its side, and a ripple of agreeable murmurs spread through the crowd of onlookers, amid nods and encouraging smiles and the occasional outburst from the village children: “Think of rain!” “Think of ripe, seeded fruit!” “Think of dancing!”
I love Pegasus anthropology. I love seeing the rituals that people come up with, and I love that the First Priestess looks like a hen. I just do.
“May your mind be cleansed of all but what is in your heart,” the Priestess continued, taking up his left hand. She dipped two fingers into the muddy mixture and painted his palm, pressing a messy, ever-widening circle into his skin until she reached the first crease of his fingers. Then she folded them into a fist, tucking his thumb under.
“Protection,” lilted the child, voice whistling through two missing front teeth, and the First Priestess spared her a fond glance.
“Yes, little one, very good.” Then the smile from her eyes finally reached her mouth, and she told Rodney proudly, “She will be a great leader one day.”
Rodney fought off an eye roll and managed to only shift his weight impatiently, nodding. The little girl stuck her tongue out at him. Great leader, my ass, he thought.
The Priestess squeezed his tightly curled hand, and the thick, red liquid seeped out from under his fingertips, dripping onto his wrist. It felt sticky and warm, and he was not thinking about blood, and then she released him and stepped away.
We know this fic is going to be a humorous romp (for lack of a better term) from the summary and notes; I'm glad that phrases like not thinking about blood ground it a little.
She said, “The journey will cost you nothing that you are not ready to give,” and blah blah blah, Rodney knew the spiel. Walk through, try not to insult anyone, indulge in a feast of mammoth proportions, try not to get drunk, make nice with the locals, try not to molest Colonel Sheppard. It was all pretty much standard.
When she spread her hand outward in invitation, Rodney took a deep breath and placed a foot onto the first step of the temple.
Teyla touched his arm. “I believe you must concentrate on the one thing you desire most, and rid your mind of all else before you enter,” she said, and Rodney shot her a dry are-you-talking? look, since duh.
Okay, by now everyone in fandom knows the spiel. We have a) a temple; b) a ritual; that c) will grant Rodney his heart's desire; and d) mention of molesting Colonel Sheppard. a + b + c + d = porn. This is probably written on a whiteboard somewhere in Atlantis. We all know what should happen next.
His thoughts were always thickly layered and intricately complicated, though, and how the hell was he supposed to think of one thing that he wanted? And maybe if he thought a slew of things at once, he’d be blessed with more out of confusion, and he’d walk away with a crate of coffee as big as Ronon - although, honestly, how would they get that home? - and a cat that looked like Gunther - only not really, since he didn’t like the thought of replacing Gunther with an exact replica, but maybe one distinctly Gunther-like - and, god, a fully-charged ZedPM, and a Nobel Prize - although he did have standards, and wouldn’t a Nobel Prize from a wish on an alien world be sort of moot, since what he really wanted was the prestige, and what kind of prestige could he get from P37-55X other than a few groupie village boys who probably couldn’t even pronounce thermonuclear, let alone have any concept of it, and it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t get one anyway-
Five em-dashes and thirteen commas in one sentence, and it still makes sense. I salute you, skoosiepants.
The question What do you seek? resounded in his head, mellow like a rumble rolling up from the stones beneath his feet as he stepped under the archway and into the cool darkness. A split-second later a flash of white light burned across his retinas and the words So shall it be were whispers against his skin. He blinked up from his position on the floor, sprawled out on his back.
It all felt a lot more ominous than he’d predicted, and he conceded that Teyla’d probably been right - not that he would ever tell her that - and he really hoped Colonel Sheppard and Ronon were back now, just in case he’d accidentally invoked a seventy foot Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.
Rodney doesn't know what he asked for, but we think we do. a + b + c + d = naked John Sheppard, and we're all waiting for the inevitable.
His radio clicked on, and a concerned, harried, “McKay?” crackled almost too loudly in the quiet stillness of the temple.
“Yes?” he answered, and wow. Calm, cool and collected, thy name is Rodney McKay. “What is it?”
“Are you fucking nuts?” Sheppard growled.
Drawing! out! the! suspense!
Rodney bristled. “I don’t think-”
“Shut up. Just. Stay where you are, all right?”
Since he sort of felt like he’d been beaten with a stick, he wasn’t going to argue. And then his nose and brain met in harmonic union, and he beheld the most glorious sight in the entire universe.
Wait for it, wait for it . . .
*
“Pancakes?”
BAM! Craisins! We don't get John Sheppard, we get pancakes. HAHAHAHAHA. I love that pancakes are Rodney's heart-wish (although the more I think about it, the more I feel like pancakes = love). Because sometimes, when you ask someone what they want more than anything, the answer is a sandwich.
Rodney grinned through a fluffy mouthful.
“Pancakes?” Sheppard repeated dumbly. “Your heart’s desire, the one thing you wanted most in the world, was a stack of pancakes?”
The colonel’s tone was well on its way to shrill, and Rodney took a certain amount of umbrage, since it wasn’t as if they were just ordinary pancakes. They were his nana’s pancakes, with her own special blend of cocoa batter, and he hadn’t had them since he was eight. Rodney hummed around another forkful, blocking out Sheppard’s bitter, bitter words - he was obviously jealous - so he could enjoy his heart-wish in peace.
The syrup was just right, warm and cinnamon-y and maple-sweet, and the chocolate chips were hot and gooey and the only thing that could’ve made it better was a side of bacon, but for once he wasn’t going to complain.
Okay, I lied. We do get porn. We get food porn. Now I need a recipe. Damn.
Leaning over to sniff, Ronon started, “Can I-?”
“No!” Rodney poked Ronon with his fork. “Hands to yourself, yeti.”
Ronon narrowed his eyes. “Watch it, McKay,” he growled, and normally Rodney would’ve backed off at the first flash of the behemoth’s teeth, but these were pancakes, his pancakes, and Ronon was going to have to pry them out of his cold dead hands.
Hunching over his plate, he glowered back at Ronon. “You’re ruining the best moment of my life,” he accused hotly.
“They’re pancakes,” Sheppard said.
“They’re the most delicious pancakes I’ve ever eaten! They’re moist and fluffy and golden-brown and I don’t care if you think it was a wasteful wish, because perfection like this... just... doesn’t.” He lost steam, mouth a lopsided frown. He was getting awfully worked up over a stack of pancakes, and even for him that was just... weird. “Do you think I’m drugged? Oh my god, I’m drugged, aren’t I? This is all some sort of horrible, evil plot to rob me of my genius. I can’t believe you’d let them drug me.”
I love Rodney. "I'M HAPPY SOMETHING MUST BE WRONG."
“McKay, you’re not-”
“Look into my eyes,” Rodney demanded, reaching out and grabbing a hold of Sheppard’s vest, yanking him closer. He widened his eyes as far as they’d go. “Are my pupils dilated? Do I seem drugged to you?”
“McKay,” Sheppard hissed, “remember your manners.” He flashed the First Priestess - who looked a little upset, and rightly so, Rodney thought, as she’d drugged him - a wide grin, prizing off Rodney’s fingers.
“My manners? My manners?” And then he noticed Ronon had nicked his forgotten plate and had his grubby paws poised over his delicious heart-sure pancakes and Rodney didn’t care that the man could kill him with his bare hands. The only thing keeping him from outright attacking Ronon was the thought of his pancakes tumbling to the dirty ground. “Don’t do it,” Rodney warned, face red.
Ronon just grinned mockingly at him.
“I can and will make your life a living hell,” Rodney went on.
Ronon’s grin widened.
“Teyla,” Rodney whined, abruptly changing tactics, and the woman arched her brows at him questioningly. “Make him give me my pancakes back.”
“Jesus, Rodney,” Sheppard snapped, getting to his feet. “Ronon, give him back his pancakes. McKay, stop talking about being drugged in front of our hosts. Teyla, just... watch them, will you?”
He stomped huffily away, and Rodney blinked after him. “What the hell is his problem?”
His problem, Rodney, is that you just threw a wrench into a beloved fandom plot. Also, you're playing with Ronon and John thinks you don't like him anymore.
*
The energy reading turned out to be a half-buried device the size of a small terrier that whirred happily when Sheppard stepped towards it.
“Look familiar?” he asked, glancing at Rodney over his shoulder.
“Ancient,” Rodney said, tapping his datapad. “It likes you.” And then the readings spiked, and it let out an odd, keening wail, shaking apart, cracking the hard-packed dirt surrounding it.
Sheppard grabbed the back of Rodney’s neck and shoved him to the ground, sprawling out on top of him, arms over his head. But the small explosion and subsequent beam of light zeroed in on Ronon - the dumb beast had just stood there - hitting him square in the chest, knocking him off his feet, puffs of dust rising as he skidded across the ground.
"Pardon me while I touch you, Rodney, in the only way I'm allowed."
“What the-?” Rodney pushed at Sheppard’s weight, and they both sat up, staring incredulously at Ronon’s fallen form. “Holy shit.”
“Ronon?” the colonel asked warily, watching as Ronon struggled upright, and Rodney’s whole world lit up, leaving him giddy inside and out.
Suspicions of drugs aside, P37-55X was officially the best planet ever.
*
Elizabeth was waiting for them at the end of the ramp as they stepped back onto Atlantis, and Rodney gave her a jaunty wave.
“Welcome back,” she said, smiling. Then, “And who’s...” Her eyes widened. “Ronon?”
Ronon growled unintelligibly.
“It’s been a fun couple of days,” Sheppard said, shooting Rodney a shut-up, shut-up-now, say-one-thing-and-I-will-snap glare.
The colonel hardly ever gave him that look, since Rodney suspected he found his rants more than a little amusing - which would’ve pissed him off, except he liked to rant, and Sheppard was the only one who ever let him go off without interrupting - so Rodney tilted his chin up and crossed his arms over his chest, mouth curling down mutinously.
“Ronon?” Elizabeth repeated, hand to her neck.
The ‘gate room guards looked a little shell-shocked, too.
Sheppard grimaced. “Maybe we should continue this conversation in the infirmary.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Good idea, John. Lead the way.”
Carson reacted much the same way Elizabeth did, with a faint curse and a disbelieving, “Ronon?” and Rodney found it close to hilarious that Ronon looked exactly the same now as he did before. Only with breasts. And while Ronon’s hairy giant status had always been manly appealing and sort of rawly sexual, and, yes, very, very attractive, it made for a spectacularly ugly girl.
This is the another Craisin--and I promise that this is the last time I'll say "Craisin"--where we've got the genderswap, another standard plot, only Ronon neither menstruates nor has sex with any male member of the team. And the best part? This isn't even the A plot. Ronon Dex gets turned into a girl and it isn't even the focus of the story. GENIUS.
This is also the point, upon rereading this story, where I went, "Wait, she's working through all of the fanfic tropes. And then I started counting.
*
Sheppard had weird moods. For the most part, Rodney didn’t understand them, since Rodney had normal moods.
He had bad moods because incompetent rhesus monkeys were masquerading as his scientists, or because Bates made Miko cry, or because Ronon nicked the last pudding right in front of him, figurative thumb to his nose. And he had good moods because Kavanagh got turned into a slice of sourdough bread, or because Teyla squeezed his arm approvingly, or because Ronon saved him the last pudding.
But Sheppard had happy mornings after failed missions - like the time they’d been trapped in the middle of a blizzard, huddled together in communal sleeping bags, or that time on PX2-40S, when the natives forced them to perform an interpretive dance - and he went stiff and blank-eyed and plastered on his rubber grin when there was absolutely nothing wrong.
*sniffle* You could teach an entire college course on What's Wrong With John Sheppard, and these are beautiful illustrations.
In fact, things were better, because Ronon - massive, feral Ronon - was a girl. A large, hirsute girl. There was no bad.
Yet Sheppard sat across from Rodney in the commissary with his ridiculously fluffy hair looking less fluffy than usual, casting fake smiles towards the botanists at the other end of the table, and it was giving Rodney indigestion.
“Are you going to eat that?”
“Of course I’m going to eat it, are you crazy? Eyes on your own food, Shaggy.” Rodney’s mouth snapped shut, watching incredulously as Ronon slapped his tray onto the table next to Sheppard’s. “What are you wearing?”
Ronon looked down at himself. “Clothes.”
Rodney jabbed a fork at him. “You look great. I thought you were ugly-”
Ronon growled, baring his teeth.
“-but you were merely un-waxed and improperly displayed.”
“Displayed, McKay?” Sheppard said tightly.
“What? Oh, come on, he’s a man. He’s not going to care if I’m staring at his breasts.” He paused, blinked, because those were words he never thought he’d say. They were pretty fantastic breasts, though, wrapped up in a Teyla-esque Athosian half-shirt.
“He’s not a man now,” the colonel argued, brows furrowed.
“I don’t mind,” Ronon offered gruffly with a shrug.
He still sounded like Ronon, too. If Rodney hadn’t already been completely at ease with his somewhat fickle sexuality, he’d have probably freaked out about the whole manly growl, plunging cleavage combination and the havoc it was playing with his libido.
"Hi, my name's Heterosexual Panic, and I won't be appearing in this story. I'll . . . I'll just be over by the buffet, then."
Sheppard looked uncomfortable, though. Well. He actually looked pissed off. “Don’t you have work to do, McKay?” he bit out, jaw clenched.
I kind of get the feeling like John's been reading the fanfic too, and knows what's supposed to happen next.
“Eating,” Rodney pointed out cheerfully around a mouthful of reconstituted potatoes.
Getting to his feet, Sheppard rolled his eyes, grabbed his tray and strolled away.
Ronon grunted. It was a meaningful grunt, too, and Rodney eyed him suspiciously, but he really didn’t want to provoke a conversation with the man.
So Rodney shoveled in another bit of potatoes, humming happily, but Ronon didn’t take the hint. He was usually good at taking hints, since he wasn’t very talkative to begin with, but he grunted again and leaned forward onto his elbows.
“Sheppard’s mad at you,” he said.
“Yes, I noticed,” Rodney snapped. “He’s gone all chivalric with you, which is absurd, but expected, given his obliviousness towards women in general, and his misbegotten assumption that all females are delicate southern belles. I blame his gentle rearing.”
Ronon scrunched his nose. “Huh?”
“He thinks I’m trying to take advantage of you in your perceived weakened state,” Rodney clarified. “Apparently, he thinks you’d let me.”
Well, in any other fic, he would.
Ronon chuckled. “Not now.”
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Because if there actually had been a time when Ronon would’ve let Rodney take advantage of him, Rodney wished he’d known about it.
Although the thought was kind of scary. Ronon was kind of scary. Sex with Ronon seemed vaguely terrifying.
“You don’t eat your partner after mating, do you?” he demanded, and he honestly didn’t think the man did, because that would’ve been ridiculously b-movie of him, but Ronon just flashed a sharp-edged grin and stole his pudding.
“You don’t eat your partner after mating, do you?” Possibly my favorite line in the piece. Because you never really know with Ronon, do you? He's got to be utterly terrifying as a woman.
*
It was the sort of mission Rodney hated, with heat and bugs and restless, distrustful natives. Which was probably why he ended up tied to a stake in the round village courtyard, his datapad in pieces at his feet, Ronon unconscious, facedown in the dirt.
Teyla and Colonel Sheppard were nowhere or somewhere. They weren’t there, so Rodney took that as a good sign, because if he didn’t, he’d panic, and while panicking in general tended to be good for Rodney’s thought processes, panicking while effectively bound and gagged was just a waste of energy and a good way for him to start hyperventilating and pass out.
Ronon unconscious was extra bad, because the man-ape had an abnormally thick skull, even as a woman, and could shake off almost anything. Ronon’d been sprawled there for a while, though, unmoving, and Rodney’s hands had long since gone numb behind his back. His skin felt raw from the late afternoon sun, and his eyes were fixed on a curious, buzzing insect that kept zipping to and fro, dancing dangerously close, and if Sheppard didn’t orchestrate some sort of rescue soon, he suspected panicking would be the least of his problems.
And then Sheppard and Telya stumbled into his line of sight, the former falling to his knees, a bruise blackening the crest of his left cheek, lip split as he grimaced at Rodney. “Hiya, McKay,” he chirped.
John likes this. Then again, John liked Antarctica.
Rodney groaned and closed his eyes, head falling back. They were so screwed.
But suddenly his hands were free and the rag between his lips was loosened, and Teyla was kneeling in front of him, briskly rubbing his wrists and then pulling him to his feet.
“Come. We must leave quickly,” she said, moving to Ronon’s prone body, shaking him into semi-wakefulness and then levering him up with Sheppard’s help. Ronon lurched forward unsteadily, Teyla braced against his side.
“What’s going on?” Rodney asked, scooping up the broken bits of his datapad, shoving them into his pockets. They were just going to let them go?
“Not the time,” Sheppard said, jamming a shoulder under Ronon’s arm with a hiss, half dragging him towards the edge of the village.
Rodney swiped the sweat off his forehead and started after them, eyes darting nervously. The natives watched, stern-faced, but they made no move to stop them as they limped past, out into the field that stretched before the stargate.
*
I feel like I should say more in these next couple of sections, but really it would be a lot of *claps hands gleefully* after every paragraph, so. I'll just say I really like them, and that there's more of the kind of interaction between John and Rodney and Ronon that I talk about elsewhere.
“You fought for me?” Rodney demanded, incredulous. “They made you fight for me?”
“Technically, they made me fight for the little lady, here.” Sheppard slapped Ronon on the back as they left the debriefing room, grinning widely.
Despite his cheerfulness - yet another prime example of Sheppard’s weird moods - Rodney knew his ribs were tightly wrapped, and the bruise on his cheek was swollen purple-black, another one just barely visible over the collar of his t-shirt, spreading out from his shoulder.
“No.” Rodney shook off Sheppard’s joking explanation. “No, they didn’t care about Ronon. Ronon wasn’t even bound. Ronon dropped like a tree when they clubbed him.”
Sheppard sighed, pausing in the hallway. “Rodney, you called the village elder a wookie.”
“I was talking to Ronon,” Rodney groused, flushing, “and they couldn’t possibly have known what that was!”
“It doesn’t matter. They didn’t like it. They wanted to gut you like a fish and lop off your head.” The colonel placed his hands on his hips, arching a brow. “Do you really want to complain about how you were released?”
“I wasn’t-I didn’t mean,” Rodney sputtered, flailing. “I don’t care how I was released, Colonel, I just,” can’t believe you fought for me, he finished lamely in his head, because the words were so pathetic and wrong, since it was Sheppard’s job to fight for him and it wasn’t surprising in the least, except it was.
Regular rescues usually involved a whole lot of firepower and stealth and maybe those nifty night-vision goggles Sheppard was so fond of - and, all right, yes, it was usually Teyla and Ronon on the saving end of things, since the colonel was just as likely as Rodney to get into trouble with his white-on-rice flirtations - but resorting to hand-to-hand combat, no matter what Sheppard had been trained for, seemed kind of... intimate.
Rodney was oddly touched. “Thank you,” he said, chin tipped up, and Sheppard tossed him a flippant, “Any time.”
*
“Your hand.”
Rodney glanced up from his laptop, irritated by the interruption. “What?”
Ronon bit off the end of a power bar, jerking his head towards Rodney’s left side. “Your hand’s still red.”
“Oh.” He flexed his fingers, curling and uncurling them over the dark stain on his skin. “It won’t scrub off. Annoying. Was there something you wanted?” Not that there usually was. Rodney suspected a great deal of Ronon’s time on Atlantis was spent being bored out of his mind.
Ronon shrugged, spun a chair around and dropped lazily into it, leaning forward into the back. His breasts squished together, almost spilling out of his top, and Rodney’s eyes automatically dropped to them.
“Are they-”
“Heavy. Weird.” Ronon cupped a palm over one and Rodney swallowed thickly, throat dry.
“Can I...?” Rodney asked, gesturing towards them, and Ronon shrugged again.
A throat cleared - loudly - just as his fingers brushed the top of one breast, and Rodney jerked his hand back and turned wide-eyes towards the doorway.
Elizabeth pursed her lips, head cocked, and Sheppard looked, well. He looked sort of constipated, with his arms crossed and jaw clenched, and then one eyebrow went up, up, up - honestly, it looked painful - and Rodney snapped defensively, “What?”
“Major Lorne’s team is three hours overdue,” Elizabeth explained.
Rodney frowned. “I heard the ‘gate activate-”
“We received Lieutenant Cadman’s IDC roughly twenty minutes ago, but there was no radio contact made, and no attempt to step through.” She clasped her hands together and bounced her gaze between Rodney and Ronon.
Rodney rolled his eyes at the implication. “You didn’t interrupt anything, Elizabeth.”
“Nothing wrong with a friendly grope,” Sheppard drawled, and Rodney narrowed a glower at him. He didn’t appreciate the man’s tone.
Ronon’s grin was conversely indulgent, amusement plain, but then he shook his head and got to his feet, his gruff, “Ten minutes?” all business.
“Fifteen,” Sheppard countered. “Teyla’s on her way back from the mainland.”
*
Rodney made it to the ‘gate room in five, buckling his thigh holster as he stood at the bottom of the ramp. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was there. Reconnoitering and rescue missions weren’t exactly his forte, but he was part of The Team - definite capital Ts - and Sheppard had very specific ideas about team bonds and dynamics and how they complimented each other in the field. So long as no one minded him bitching about being shot at, Rodney was willing to go along with that.
Which, thank you, because a lot of the time I wonder why Rodney goes on certain types of missions, because honestly. If things go pear-shaped and you're planning a rescue mission, why do you bring along the civilian scientist who isn't really all that good with a weapon? I like this explanation, and I like that there is an explanation beyond, "This is the John and Rodney Show, ergo both John and Rodney must be present."
He hadn’t always felt that way, of course, but save a couple of lives a couple dozen times and even egomaniacs started building hero-complexes. It was honestly detrimental to his health, but Rodney had long since given up fighting it. Besides, the bonus of having saved those lives was that they were equally devoted to saving his.
A few minutes later, Ronon and Sheppard strode in, Ronon looking ridiculously hot in something that probably would’ve been swimming on Teyla, but managed to cling half-way down his ribcage. Sheppard had his aviator sunglasses on and his black tee and there was an extra lazy roll in his walk. Rodney tried to remember who the fourth member of Lorne’s team was, because there was no way the colonel was dressed to impress Teyla or Cadman or, god help them, Ronon.
I was rereading this yesterday, and my mind went, "Well, Reletti's the fourth member," and then I mentally facepalmed so hard. *nods to miss-porcupine*
John, of course, is dressing up for Rodney. Mmm.
“So, where are we going?” Rodney asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Sheppard gave him a half-grin. “The uninhabited planet with the sweet blossoms and the freaky spider bats.”
“Spider bats,” Rodney grumbled. “Great.”
“They don’t bite.”
“They didn’t bite us then,” Rodney protested. “Apparently, they’ve eaten Lorne’s team.”
“Way to rally the troops, McKay.” Sheppard clapped his shoulder. Hard.
"It's manly touching! I'm allowed!"
Then Teyla walked in, tacked up and serene-faced, and the sergeant commonly known as Chuck dialed out.
*
The MALP showed only red-orange twilight and bare-limbed trees thickly nested with brown-winged spider bats. There was no sign of the major, no sign of anything, really, complete with fairly innocuous surface readings, so the four of them followed each other into the event horizon.
The planet on the other side was dust-bowl barren and hot, and Sheppard said, “Huh,” and, “Do you remember this place being so... empty?”
“This is very different from what I recall,” Teyla agreed, looking around, a cautious frown on her face.
The spider bats tittered, their leathery wings rustling with dry fwaps as they rose en masse, circled and settled down again in the silver trees overhead, bodies big as crows.
"Fwap" is so a word, and I will fight anyone who says differently.
“Spider bats are still thriving,” Rodney said mock-cheerfully, and then something blunt and hard knocked him in the back of the head and his vision grayed as he fell forward, Sheppard’s, “Rodney!” distant and tinny.
Spider bats show up in at least one more of Skoosie's fics. I'm afraid to ask her about them.
The dirt smelled like ash, burned against his skin as he slid roughly against it, and then another sharp blow blacked out even that.
*
Rodney woke with Sheppard hovering over him, a fresh cut across his forehead that ran close to his temple, and dark, hard eyes.
“What?” he snapped, and was surprised by the slight slur in his voice, the small movement and sound squeezing pain around the base of his skull. He groaned, eyes fluttering closed again.
“Rodney,” Sheppard said softly, tone completely undermining his expression. “Come on, you’re concussed. Stay awake for me.”
This is probably a bad place to say so, but I . . . I'm really loving rereading this and watching John instead of Rodney, knowing what we find out at the end and seeing John's actions through that lens. Because we've been kind of thrown off by the McShep not happening right away, and further by all of the plot that keeps happening, but the thread running through the whole thing is John's actions toward Rodney. And John's feelings are obvious in retrospect but the first time through they're just John-is-weird, especially if you're clueless like Rodney (or me--I think another thing that threw me is that I'm used to the POV character being the one in love with the oblivious other person, so I've been watching for Rodney to fall in love with John and not the other way around).
“Great,” Rodney breathed, looking up at the colonel again, noting the surrounding expanse of dirt... and more dirt. “What happened?”
Sheppard chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, the usual. Previously uninhabited planet not so uninhabited anymore.”
“Sir,” Major Lorne moved into view, filthy with mud and dried blood, “we think there’s a pattern with the spider bats.”
Every time I try to think of what a spider bat would look like, it's worse. Can't even imagine. Those things freak me out.
Rodney planted his palms on the ground and pushed, struggling into a sitting position, then turning to lean against the wall of the...pit. They were definitely in some sort of pit. Parrish was across from him, long legs folded up and big hands curving over the tops of his knees. His nails were black with dirt, ragged, one finger red-brown with blood.
Hey, Parrish! Cool! Parrish gets a lot of love for such a small canon presence. But then again, that never stopped us before. I do like the visual, though--Parrish is very very freaked out, such a contrast to Rodney, who by this point doesn't even bat an eye at spider bats and people being kidnapped. Okay, he bats an eye. But he's not hugging his knees, rocking back and forth, either. You can really see the development of Rodney's bravery over time.
Sergeant Myer was standing with his head tipped back, staring at the rapidly darkening sky.
“A helpful pattern?” Sheppard asked, shifting up on one knee.
“Just speculation at this point, sir, but they seem to be circling overhead every fifteen minutes or so.”
Sheppard narrowed his eyes, face thoughtful. “They circled right before we were attacked at the ‘gate.”
“Right.” Lorne nodded.
“A patrol, then.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Which doesn’t help us very much,” Rodney groused half-heartedly, wrapping a hand around his nape with a wince, “since we’re stuck in a hole. Unless the freaky spider bats have magical ropes attached to their freaky spindly legs. Where’s everyone else?”
Lorne grimaced. “Not sure about that.”
“Major, Colonel Sheppard.” Myer was still gazing steadily upward, body tense.
And then Rodney heard it, the eerily silent creatures taking flight, only sound the flap and glide of their wings as they cut through the air above them.
“Problem is,” Lorne whispered without moving, “we can’t figure out how long they’re within sight, since the bats only circle once.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Sheppard was eyeing up the walls and flexing his fingers, and Rodney knew he probably wasn’t going to like whatever plan he came up with, especially if it had anything to do with scaling the crumbling side of the pit with his bare hands.
“No idea,” Lorne said, just as Parrish offered, “We haven’t been able to see them.”
“It should be full dark soon,” Myer said.
Not that it’d do them much good, since the planet had three moons and, at the moment, lacked any indigenous cover. The pit was shadowed by the lip of the narrow opening, but moonlight already spilled down half of one side, washing the jagged rock in shades of bright white-gray.
Settling down next to Rodney, Sheppard asked, “How’s the head?”
“Broken. I think my brain is hemorrhaging.”
The colonel blinked at him. “You just want me to carry you.”
Rodney spluttered, “Like you even could,” before realizing that was more an insult to himself than Sheppard. He hastened to add, “I mean. You’re like a stick with hair,” waving a hand.
Sheppard’s brow furrowed. “McKay,” he drawled warningly, and Rodney gestured towards his head.
“Concussion!” he said. “You’re lucky I’m not hallucinating.”
“Are you sure you aren’t, Dr. McKay?” Major Lorne asked, grinning.
Rodney growled and Sheppard said, “Stop taunting the scientist, Major,” and Parrish gave a half-hysterical laugh, then choked out, completely off-topic, “Do you think Lieutenant Cadman is dead?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rodney snapped automatically, understandably upset by the nausea that statement inspired, since Laura Cadman was a massive pain in his ass and he’d wished for her death on several different specific occasions.
Shadows flashed overhead and Myer, clearly startled, glanced at his watch. “It’s been barely ten,” he said, and then a familiar dreadlocked head popped into view.
*
Ronon called them Sand Travelers, nomads who thrived by migrating through stargates, manipulating worlds to suit their survival needs - dry heat, mainly, everything within their reach dying by a slow roast.
So cool. I love the anthropologicrack that comes out of this fandom. Not that this particular detail is crack; it totally makes sense when you're running from the Wraith to hop from planet to planet. Everybody deals with a threat like that in their own way, and there are so many good fics that show all of the different ways: you hide or you worship them or you just try to live for the present.
The women - Ronon included - had been deemed honored guests, while the men had been relegated to the pit and eventual death. But the lieutenant’s attempt to dial Atlantis for help had been met with suspicion and displeasure and-
Rodney gaped out into the middle of the small, torch-lit camp. “Is this a harem? Are they-you-in a harem?” he hissed at Ronon.
“Shut up, McKay,” Sheppard snapped.
Rodney ignored him. “Why aren’t you wearing that?” he demanded in a hush, the press of his body in between the colonel and Ronon as they hid behind a thick, stout-trunked tree the only thing stopping him from flailing an arm. It was like an I Dream of Jeannie fantasy come to life.
*giggles* Rodney! So torn between hating Cadman and being sad she might have died and thinking someone he hates is hot.
Ronon shrugged. “Too big. They’re tiny.”
“They’re crazy,” Rodney countered emphatically, then cocked his head. “How tiny are we talking?”
“McKay,” Sheppard ground out through his teeth, “Shut. Up.”
“Ewok tiny? Normal compared to you tiny? As in, not freakishly big tiny?” He was rambling, he fully admitted it, but wow. Cadman was hot, and he really wanted to scrub his brain with bleach and forget he ever thought that.
He’d cherish the diaphanous harem pants forever, though.
And then a gaggle of smaller than average people spilled out of one of the tents, chattering non-stop in grating, argumentative tones, and Sheppard muttered, “It’s like attack of the Joe Pescis.”
They were roughly handling their P-90s, shaking them curiously and staring down the barrels, and Rodney winced. “Oh, that can’t end well.”
“Sir.” Major Lorne was crouched at their feet. “Looks like Lieutenant Cadman’s left ankle is chain-”
A spate of gunfire and alarmed shouts swallowed the major’s words, and then Ronon slipped forward, knocking the nearest torch into a billowing tent before swooping in to help Teyla with Cadman’s binds.
Soon, half the encampment was ablaze, thick black smoke hanging low and heavy in the still air, silver-dead trees lighting up like kindling, and Rodney didn’t remember much in the ensuing rush for the ‘gate, fire following them at a frightening pace, except that Sheppard had a hand wrapped tightly around his wrist.
I love the word choices throughout this, like "silver-dead trees." Beautiful.
*
“You don’t have black lung, Rodney,” Carson said wearily.
“My breathing’s impaired,” Rodney protested, palm to his chest. “Everything tastes like burnt hair. My lungs are charred from the inside out and don’t you have some sort of,” he wiggled his fingers, “voodoo cleansing serum?”
Carson frowned. “How long has your hand been like that?” he asked. Then, “Voodoo cleansing serum? You mean water?”
*snerk* "You mean water?"
Rodney rolled his eyes.
“You’ve been on oxygen already, Rodney. You’re fine, your vitals are fine, your head wound is healing nicely, you do not have black lung. The hand?”
“Oh, um,” Rodney wiggled his fingers again, holding the stained palm up in front of his face. It was dark red, almost brown like a birth mark. “A month? Since the planet that turned Ronon into a girl.”
Carson grasped his hand and tilted it towards the light. “And you’re not worried about that?” he asked, incredulous.
“No. Huh.” Lopsided scowl in place, he shook off Carson’s grip, because he should have been worried. He should’ve been knee-deep in panic for weeks, and it was honestly very weird that he wasn’t. He shrugged. “It’ll go away eventually.”
I admit that the symbolism of the stained hand still escapes me. I think I may need to make a flowchart, where pancakes = love = John = heart's desire; and stained hand = protection.
Carson’s eyes widened, expression turning towards concerned. “Maybe your head injury’s a wee bit more complicated than I thought.”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
Part Two
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 9,700+
Summary: She said, “The journey will cost you nothing that you are not ready to give,” and blah blah blah, Rodney knew the spiel. Walk through, try not to insult anyone, indulge in a feast of mammoth proportions, try not to get drunk, make nice with the locals, try not to molest Colonel Sheppard. It was all pretty much standard.
This Fic Features: Momentous Pancakes, Crudely Drawn Conclusions, Possible Misuse of the Term 'Puppet Regime,' An Overabundance of Large Hairy Names, Best Friends Being Best Friends Forever, One or Two Actual Serious Parts, and - sadly - No Actual Sex.
A/N: chopchica wanted something non-au, and millefiori wanted a sex-change, and well. I maybe fudged it a bit. Also, I've realized I mainly just write scenes and then string them together with near invisible threads. Hopefully this story makes some sense anyway.
ETA: I keep fiddling with the title. *hates it*
DVD Commentary by siegeofangels.
So, things are like this: SGA fandom is like a dessert potluck, right, and there are a lot of chocolate chip cookies. Which of course is good, right, because we like chocolate chip cookies. skoosiepants is the person who brings cookies, and plunks the plate down, and is all, "Hey, I brought oatmeal-almond with toasted pine nuts and Craisins. . . . What?"
By which I mean, her fic is a little bit different, a little bit unexpected, and quite quite good.
One Simple Theme
-or-
The One About Pancakes
Rodney had been off-world enough times to be leery of temples, shrines, sacred rings, etc. and the festivals, rites, and feasts that usually accompanied them. Still. The First Priestess had mentioned gifts, and gifts could quite possibly include the chocolaty-mocha scented plants that thickly rimmed the village clearing and may or may not be edible. They hadn’t figured that out yet, but Rodney was willing to just bury his nose in the wide, flat leaves and inhale. The entire village smelled like his nana’s house at Christmas.
“Are you certain you wish to do this, Dr. McKay?” Teyla asked, hand cupped over her forehead to block out the nearly blue bright sun. She was staring at the imposing, sand-brown building with a small frown pulling her lips. Six large, blocked symbols ran the length of the arched doorway, and she’d translated them hesitantly as “heart-wise,” “heart-sure,” and “heart-wish” respectively.
Rodney thought the glyph for heart looked an awful lot like Mr. Peanut. Which probably should’ve made him wary, except there were gifts involved, not to mention the wonderful happy blips he was receiving on his datapad that indicated a nicely-sized energy source hidden somewhere in the vicinity. The temple was the most-likely place to start.
“We should wait for Colonel Sheppard and Ronon to return,” Teyla cautioned.
“Presents!” Rodney reminded her cheerfully, and really. All he had to do was walk through the building and be blessed. How hard could that be?
The First Priestess, short and round-faced and reminiscent of a plump hen, moved to stand in front of him, a smile in her eyes even though her mouth was devoutly impassive, and a little girl by her side lifted a wooden bowl above her head, burnt umber liquid staining the sides as it sloshed.
Another bowl, empty and deep, edges curling inward, was held up under his chin. “May your thoughts be clear,” the Priestess intoned melodiously. “May your desires be purely writ.”
She set the bowl at his feet, tipped over onto its side, and a ripple of agreeable murmurs spread through the crowd of onlookers, amid nods and encouraging smiles and the occasional outburst from the village children: “Think of rain!” “Think of ripe, seeded fruit!” “Think of dancing!”
I love Pegasus anthropology. I love seeing the rituals that people come up with, and I love that the First Priestess looks like a hen. I just do.
“May your mind be cleansed of all but what is in your heart,” the Priestess continued, taking up his left hand. She dipped two fingers into the muddy mixture and painted his palm, pressing a messy, ever-widening circle into his skin until she reached the first crease of his fingers. Then she folded them into a fist, tucking his thumb under.
“Protection,” lilted the child, voice whistling through two missing front teeth, and the First Priestess spared her a fond glance.
“Yes, little one, very good.” Then the smile from her eyes finally reached her mouth, and she told Rodney proudly, “She will be a great leader one day.”
Rodney fought off an eye roll and managed to only shift his weight impatiently, nodding. The little girl stuck her tongue out at him. Great leader, my ass, he thought.
The Priestess squeezed his tightly curled hand, and the thick, red liquid seeped out from under his fingertips, dripping onto his wrist. It felt sticky and warm, and he was not thinking about blood, and then she released him and stepped away.
We know this fic is going to be a humorous romp (for lack of a better term) from the summary and notes; I'm glad that phrases like not thinking about blood ground it a little.
She said, “The journey will cost you nothing that you are not ready to give,” and blah blah blah, Rodney knew the spiel. Walk through, try not to insult anyone, indulge in a feast of mammoth proportions, try not to get drunk, make nice with the locals, try not to molest Colonel Sheppard. It was all pretty much standard.
When she spread her hand outward in invitation, Rodney took a deep breath and placed a foot onto the first step of the temple.
Teyla touched his arm. “I believe you must concentrate on the one thing you desire most, and rid your mind of all else before you enter,” she said, and Rodney shot her a dry are-you-talking? look, since duh.
Okay, by now everyone in fandom knows the spiel. We have a) a temple; b) a ritual; that c) will grant Rodney his heart's desire; and d) mention of molesting Colonel Sheppard. a + b + c + d = porn. This is probably written on a whiteboard somewhere in Atlantis. We all know what should happen next.
His thoughts were always thickly layered and intricately complicated, though, and how the hell was he supposed to think of one thing that he wanted? And maybe if he thought a slew of things at once, he’d be blessed with more out of confusion, and he’d walk away with a crate of coffee as big as Ronon - although, honestly, how would they get that home? - and a cat that looked like Gunther - only not really, since he didn’t like the thought of replacing Gunther with an exact replica, but maybe one distinctly Gunther-like - and, god, a fully-charged ZedPM, and a Nobel Prize - although he did have standards, and wouldn’t a Nobel Prize from a wish on an alien world be sort of moot, since what he really wanted was the prestige, and what kind of prestige could he get from P37-55X other than a few groupie village boys who probably couldn’t even pronounce thermonuclear, let alone have any concept of it, and it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t get one anyway-
Five em-dashes and thirteen commas in one sentence, and it still makes sense. I salute you, skoosiepants.
The question What do you seek? resounded in his head, mellow like a rumble rolling up from the stones beneath his feet as he stepped under the archway and into the cool darkness. A split-second later a flash of white light burned across his retinas and the words So shall it be were whispers against his skin. He blinked up from his position on the floor, sprawled out on his back.
It all felt a lot more ominous than he’d predicted, and he conceded that Teyla’d probably been right - not that he would ever tell her that - and he really hoped Colonel Sheppard and Ronon were back now, just in case he’d accidentally invoked a seventy foot Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.
Rodney doesn't know what he asked for, but we think we do. a + b + c + d = naked John Sheppard, and we're all waiting for the inevitable.
His radio clicked on, and a concerned, harried, “McKay?” crackled almost too loudly in the quiet stillness of the temple.
“Yes?” he answered, and wow. Calm, cool and collected, thy name is Rodney McKay. “What is it?”
“Are you fucking nuts?” Sheppard growled.
Drawing! out! the! suspense!
Rodney bristled. “I don’t think-”
“Shut up. Just. Stay where you are, all right?”
Since he sort of felt like he’d been beaten with a stick, he wasn’t going to argue. And then his nose and brain met in harmonic union, and he beheld the most glorious sight in the entire universe.
Wait for it, wait for it . . .
*
“Pancakes?”
BAM! Craisins! We don't get John Sheppard, we get pancakes. HAHAHAHAHA. I love that pancakes are Rodney's heart-wish (although the more I think about it, the more I feel like pancakes = love). Because sometimes, when you ask someone what they want more than anything, the answer is a sandwich.
Rodney grinned through a fluffy mouthful.
“Pancakes?” Sheppard repeated dumbly. “Your heart’s desire, the one thing you wanted most in the world, was a stack of pancakes?”
The colonel’s tone was well on its way to shrill, and Rodney took a certain amount of umbrage, since it wasn’t as if they were just ordinary pancakes. They were his nana’s pancakes, with her own special blend of cocoa batter, and he hadn’t had them since he was eight. Rodney hummed around another forkful, blocking out Sheppard’s bitter, bitter words - he was obviously jealous - so he could enjoy his heart-wish in peace.
The syrup was just right, warm and cinnamon-y and maple-sweet, and the chocolate chips were hot and gooey and the only thing that could’ve made it better was a side of bacon, but for once he wasn’t going to complain.
Okay, I lied. We do get porn. We get food porn. Now I need a recipe. Damn.
Leaning over to sniff, Ronon started, “Can I-?”
“No!” Rodney poked Ronon with his fork. “Hands to yourself, yeti.”
Ronon narrowed his eyes. “Watch it, McKay,” he growled, and normally Rodney would’ve backed off at the first flash of the behemoth’s teeth, but these were pancakes, his pancakes, and Ronon was going to have to pry them out of his cold dead hands.
Hunching over his plate, he glowered back at Ronon. “You’re ruining the best moment of my life,” he accused hotly.
“They’re pancakes,” Sheppard said.
“They’re the most delicious pancakes I’ve ever eaten! They’re moist and fluffy and golden-brown and I don’t care if you think it was a wasteful wish, because perfection like this... just... doesn’t.” He lost steam, mouth a lopsided frown. He was getting awfully worked up over a stack of pancakes, and even for him that was just... weird. “Do you think I’m drugged? Oh my god, I’m drugged, aren’t I? This is all some sort of horrible, evil plot to rob me of my genius. I can’t believe you’d let them drug me.”
I love Rodney. "I'M HAPPY SOMETHING MUST BE WRONG."
“McKay, you’re not-”
“Look into my eyes,” Rodney demanded, reaching out and grabbing a hold of Sheppard’s vest, yanking him closer. He widened his eyes as far as they’d go. “Are my pupils dilated? Do I seem drugged to you?”
“McKay,” Sheppard hissed, “remember your manners.” He flashed the First Priestess - who looked a little upset, and rightly so, Rodney thought, as she’d drugged him - a wide grin, prizing off Rodney’s fingers.
“My manners? My manners?” And then he noticed Ronon had nicked his forgotten plate and had his grubby paws poised over his delicious heart-sure pancakes and Rodney didn’t care that the man could kill him with his bare hands. The only thing keeping him from outright attacking Ronon was the thought of his pancakes tumbling to the dirty ground. “Don’t do it,” Rodney warned, face red.
Ronon just grinned mockingly at him.
“I can and will make your life a living hell,” Rodney went on.
Ronon’s grin widened.
“Teyla,” Rodney whined, abruptly changing tactics, and the woman arched her brows at him questioningly. “Make him give me my pancakes back.”
“Jesus, Rodney,” Sheppard snapped, getting to his feet. “Ronon, give him back his pancakes. McKay, stop talking about being drugged in front of our hosts. Teyla, just... watch them, will you?”
He stomped huffily away, and Rodney blinked after him. “What the hell is his problem?”
His problem, Rodney, is that you just threw a wrench into a beloved fandom plot. Also, you're playing with Ronon and John thinks you don't like him anymore.
*
The energy reading turned out to be a half-buried device the size of a small terrier that whirred happily when Sheppard stepped towards it.
“Look familiar?” he asked, glancing at Rodney over his shoulder.
“Ancient,” Rodney said, tapping his datapad. “It likes you.” And then the readings spiked, and it let out an odd, keening wail, shaking apart, cracking the hard-packed dirt surrounding it.
Sheppard grabbed the back of Rodney’s neck and shoved him to the ground, sprawling out on top of him, arms over his head. But the small explosion and subsequent beam of light zeroed in on Ronon - the dumb beast had just stood there - hitting him square in the chest, knocking him off his feet, puffs of dust rising as he skidded across the ground.
"Pardon me while I touch you, Rodney, in the only way I'm allowed."
“What the-?” Rodney pushed at Sheppard’s weight, and they both sat up, staring incredulously at Ronon’s fallen form. “Holy shit.”
“Ronon?” the colonel asked warily, watching as Ronon struggled upright, and Rodney’s whole world lit up, leaving him giddy inside and out.
Suspicions of drugs aside, P37-55X was officially the best planet ever.
*
Elizabeth was waiting for them at the end of the ramp as they stepped back onto Atlantis, and Rodney gave her a jaunty wave.
“Welcome back,” she said, smiling. Then, “And who’s...” Her eyes widened. “Ronon?”
Ronon growled unintelligibly.
“It’s been a fun couple of days,” Sheppard said, shooting Rodney a shut-up, shut-up-now, say-one-thing-and-I-will-snap glare.
The colonel hardly ever gave him that look, since Rodney suspected he found his rants more than a little amusing - which would’ve pissed him off, except he liked to rant, and Sheppard was the only one who ever let him go off without interrupting - so Rodney tilted his chin up and crossed his arms over his chest, mouth curling down mutinously.
“Ronon?” Elizabeth repeated, hand to her neck.
The ‘gate room guards looked a little shell-shocked, too.
Sheppard grimaced. “Maybe we should continue this conversation in the infirmary.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Good idea, John. Lead the way.”
Carson reacted much the same way Elizabeth did, with a faint curse and a disbelieving, “Ronon?” and Rodney found it close to hilarious that Ronon looked exactly the same now as he did before. Only with breasts. And while Ronon’s hairy giant status had always been manly appealing and sort of rawly sexual, and, yes, very, very attractive, it made for a spectacularly ugly girl.
This is the another Craisin--and I promise that this is the last time I'll say "Craisin"--where we've got the genderswap, another standard plot, only Ronon neither menstruates nor has sex with any male member of the team. And the best part? This isn't even the A plot. Ronon Dex gets turned into a girl and it isn't even the focus of the story. GENIUS.
This is also the point, upon rereading this story, where I went, "Wait, she's working through all of the fanfic tropes. And then I started counting.
*
Sheppard had weird moods. For the most part, Rodney didn’t understand them, since Rodney had normal moods.
He had bad moods because incompetent rhesus monkeys were masquerading as his scientists, or because Bates made Miko cry, or because Ronon nicked the last pudding right in front of him, figurative thumb to his nose. And he had good moods because Kavanagh got turned into a slice of sourdough bread, or because Teyla squeezed his arm approvingly, or because Ronon saved him the last pudding.
But Sheppard had happy mornings after failed missions - like the time they’d been trapped in the middle of a blizzard, huddled together in communal sleeping bags, or that time on PX2-40S, when the natives forced them to perform an interpretive dance - and he went stiff and blank-eyed and plastered on his rubber grin when there was absolutely nothing wrong.
*sniffle* You could teach an entire college course on What's Wrong With John Sheppard, and these are beautiful illustrations.
In fact, things were better, because Ronon - massive, feral Ronon - was a girl. A large, hirsute girl. There was no bad.
Yet Sheppard sat across from Rodney in the commissary with his ridiculously fluffy hair looking less fluffy than usual, casting fake smiles towards the botanists at the other end of the table, and it was giving Rodney indigestion.
“Are you going to eat that?”
“Of course I’m going to eat it, are you crazy? Eyes on your own food, Shaggy.” Rodney’s mouth snapped shut, watching incredulously as Ronon slapped his tray onto the table next to Sheppard’s. “What are you wearing?”
Ronon looked down at himself. “Clothes.”
Rodney jabbed a fork at him. “You look great. I thought you were ugly-”
Ronon growled, baring his teeth.
“-but you were merely un-waxed and improperly displayed.”
“Displayed, McKay?” Sheppard said tightly.
“What? Oh, come on, he’s a man. He’s not going to care if I’m staring at his breasts.” He paused, blinked, because those were words he never thought he’d say. They were pretty fantastic breasts, though, wrapped up in a Teyla-esque Athosian half-shirt.
“He’s not a man now,” the colonel argued, brows furrowed.
“I don’t mind,” Ronon offered gruffly with a shrug.
He still sounded like Ronon, too. If Rodney hadn’t already been completely at ease with his somewhat fickle sexuality, he’d have probably freaked out about the whole manly growl, plunging cleavage combination and the havoc it was playing with his libido.
"Hi, my name's Heterosexual Panic, and I won't be appearing in this story. I'll . . . I'll just be over by the buffet, then."
Sheppard looked uncomfortable, though. Well. He actually looked pissed off. “Don’t you have work to do, McKay?” he bit out, jaw clenched.
I kind of get the feeling like John's been reading the fanfic too, and knows what's supposed to happen next.
“Eating,” Rodney pointed out cheerfully around a mouthful of reconstituted potatoes.
Getting to his feet, Sheppard rolled his eyes, grabbed his tray and strolled away.
Ronon grunted. It was a meaningful grunt, too, and Rodney eyed him suspiciously, but he really didn’t want to provoke a conversation with the man.
So Rodney shoveled in another bit of potatoes, humming happily, but Ronon didn’t take the hint. He was usually good at taking hints, since he wasn’t very talkative to begin with, but he grunted again and leaned forward onto his elbows.
“Sheppard’s mad at you,” he said.
“Yes, I noticed,” Rodney snapped. “He’s gone all chivalric with you, which is absurd, but expected, given his obliviousness towards women in general, and his misbegotten assumption that all females are delicate southern belles. I blame his gentle rearing.”
Ronon scrunched his nose. “Huh?”
“He thinks I’m trying to take advantage of you in your perceived weakened state,” Rodney clarified. “Apparently, he thinks you’d let me.”
Well, in any other fic, he would.
Ronon chuckled. “Not now.”
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Because if there actually had been a time when Ronon would’ve let Rodney take advantage of him, Rodney wished he’d known about it.
Although the thought was kind of scary. Ronon was kind of scary. Sex with Ronon seemed vaguely terrifying.
“You don’t eat your partner after mating, do you?” he demanded, and he honestly didn’t think the man did, because that would’ve been ridiculously b-movie of him, but Ronon just flashed a sharp-edged grin and stole his pudding.
“You don’t eat your partner after mating, do you?” Possibly my favorite line in the piece. Because you never really know with Ronon, do you? He's got to be utterly terrifying as a woman.
*
It was the sort of mission Rodney hated, with heat and bugs and restless, distrustful natives. Which was probably why he ended up tied to a stake in the round village courtyard, his datapad in pieces at his feet, Ronon unconscious, facedown in the dirt.
Teyla and Colonel Sheppard were nowhere or somewhere. They weren’t there, so Rodney took that as a good sign, because if he didn’t, he’d panic, and while panicking in general tended to be good for Rodney’s thought processes, panicking while effectively bound and gagged was just a waste of energy and a good way for him to start hyperventilating and pass out.
Ronon unconscious was extra bad, because the man-ape had an abnormally thick skull, even as a woman, and could shake off almost anything. Ronon’d been sprawled there for a while, though, unmoving, and Rodney’s hands had long since gone numb behind his back. His skin felt raw from the late afternoon sun, and his eyes were fixed on a curious, buzzing insect that kept zipping to and fro, dancing dangerously close, and if Sheppard didn’t orchestrate some sort of rescue soon, he suspected panicking would be the least of his problems.
And then Sheppard and Telya stumbled into his line of sight, the former falling to his knees, a bruise blackening the crest of his left cheek, lip split as he grimaced at Rodney. “Hiya, McKay,” he chirped.
John likes this. Then again, John liked Antarctica.
Rodney groaned and closed his eyes, head falling back. They were so screwed.
But suddenly his hands were free and the rag between his lips was loosened, and Teyla was kneeling in front of him, briskly rubbing his wrists and then pulling him to his feet.
“Come. We must leave quickly,” she said, moving to Ronon’s prone body, shaking him into semi-wakefulness and then levering him up with Sheppard’s help. Ronon lurched forward unsteadily, Teyla braced against his side.
“What’s going on?” Rodney asked, scooping up the broken bits of his datapad, shoving them into his pockets. They were just going to let them go?
“Not the time,” Sheppard said, jamming a shoulder under Ronon’s arm with a hiss, half dragging him towards the edge of the village.
Rodney swiped the sweat off his forehead and started after them, eyes darting nervously. The natives watched, stern-faced, but they made no move to stop them as they limped past, out into the field that stretched before the stargate.
*
I feel like I should say more in these next couple of sections, but really it would be a lot of *claps hands gleefully* after every paragraph, so. I'll just say I really like them, and that there's more of the kind of interaction between John and Rodney and Ronon that I talk about elsewhere.
“You fought for me?” Rodney demanded, incredulous. “They made you fight for me?”
“Technically, they made me fight for the little lady, here.” Sheppard slapped Ronon on the back as they left the debriefing room, grinning widely.
Despite his cheerfulness - yet another prime example of Sheppard’s weird moods - Rodney knew his ribs were tightly wrapped, and the bruise on his cheek was swollen purple-black, another one just barely visible over the collar of his t-shirt, spreading out from his shoulder.
“No.” Rodney shook off Sheppard’s joking explanation. “No, they didn’t care about Ronon. Ronon wasn’t even bound. Ronon dropped like a tree when they clubbed him.”
Sheppard sighed, pausing in the hallway. “Rodney, you called the village elder a wookie.”
“I was talking to Ronon,” Rodney groused, flushing, “and they couldn’t possibly have known what that was!”
“It doesn’t matter. They didn’t like it. They wanted to gut you like a fish and lop off your head.” The colonel placed his hands on his hips, arching a brow. “Do you really want to complain about how you were released?”
“I wasn’t-I didn’t mean,” Rodney sputtered, flailing. “I don’t care how I was released, Colonel, I just,” can’t believe you fought for me, he finished lamely in his head, because the words were so pathetic and wrong, since it was Sheppard’s job to fight for him and it wasn’t surprising in the least, except it was.
Regular rescues usually involved a whole lot of firepower and stealth and maybe those nifty night-vision goggles Sheppard was so fond of - and, all right, yes, it was usually Teyla and Ronon on the saving end of things, since the colonel was just as likely as Rodney to get into trouble with his white-on-rice flirtations - but resorting to hand-to-hand combat, no matter what Sheppard had been trained for, seemed kind of... intimate.
Rodney was oddly touched. “Thank you,” he said, chin tipped up, and Sheppard tossed him a flippant, “Any time.”
*
“Your hand.”
Rodney glanced up from his laptop, irritated by the interruption. “What?”
Ronon bit off the end of a power bar, jerking his head towards Rodney’s left side. “Your hand’s still red.”
“Oh.” He flexed his fingers, curling and uncurling them over the dark stain on his skin. “It won’t scrub off. Annoying. Was there something you wanted?” Not that there usually was. Rodney suspected a great deal of Ronon’s time on Atlantis was spent being bored out of his mind.
Ronon shrugged, spun a chair around and dropped lazily into it, leaning forward into the back. His breasts squished together, almost spilling out of his top, and Rodney’s eyes automatically dropped to them.
“Are they-”
“Heavy. Weird.” Ronon cupped a palm over one and Rodney swallowed thickly, throat dry.
“Can I...?” Rodney asked, gesturing towards them, and Ronon shrugged again.
A throat cleared - loudly - just as his fingers brushed the top of one breast, and Rodney jerked his hand back and turned wide-eyes towards the doorway.
Elizabeth pursed her lips, head cocked, and Sheppard looked, well. He looked sort of constipated, with his arms crossed and jaw clenched, and then one eyebrow went up, up, up - honestly, it looked painful - and Rodney snapped defensively, “What?”
“Major Lorne’s team is three hours overdue,” Elizabeth explained.
Rodney frowned. “I heard the ‘gate activate-”
“We received Lieutenant Cadman’s IDC roughly twenty minutes ago, but there was no radio contact made, and no attempt to step through.” She clasped her hands together and bounced her gaze between Rodney and Ronon.
Rodney rolled his eyes at the implication. “You didn’t interrupt anything, Elizabeth.”
“Nothing wrong with a friendly grope,” Sheppard drawled, and Rodney narrowed a glower at him. He didn’t appreciate the man’s tone.
Ronon’s grin was conversely indulgent, amusement plain, but then he shook his head and got to his feet, his gruff, “Ten minutes?” all business.
“Fifteen,” Sheppard countered. “Teyla’s on her way back from the mainland.”
*
Rodney made it to the ‘gate room in five, buckling his thigh holster as he stood at the bottom of the ramp. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was there. Reconnoitering and rescue missions weren’t exactly his forte, but he was part of The Team - definite capital Ts - and Sheppard had very specific ideas about team bonds and dynamics and how they complimented each other in the field. So long as no one minded him bitching about being shot at, Rodney was willing to go along with that.
Which, thank you, because a lot of the time I wonder why Rodney goes on certain types of missions, because honestly. If things go pear-shaped and you're planning a rescue mission, why do you bring along the civilian scientist who isn't really all that good with a weapon? I like this explanation, and I like that there is an explanation beyond, "This is the John and Rodney Show, ergo both John and Rodney must be present."
He hadn’t always felt that way, of course, but save a couple of lives a couple dozen times and even egomaniacs started building hero-complexes. It was honestly detrimental to his health, but Rodney had long since given up fighting it. Besides, the bonus of having saved those lives was that they were equally devoted to saving his.
A few minutes later, Ronon and Sheppard strode in, Ronon looking ridiculously hot in something that probably would’ve been swimming on Teyla, but managed to cling half-way down his ribcage. Sheppard had his aviator sunglasses on and his black tee and there was an extra lazy roll in his walk. Rodney tried to remember who the fourth member of Lorne’s team was, because there was no way the colonel was dressed to impress Teyla or Cadman or, god help them, Ronon.
I was rereading this yesterday, and my mind went, "Well, Reletti's the fourth member," and then I mentally facepalmed so hard. *nods to miss-porcupine*
John, of course, is dressing up for Rodney. Mmm.
“So, where are we going?” Rodney asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Sheppard gave him a half-grin. “The uninhabited planet with the sweet blossoms and the freaky spider bats.”
“Spider bats,” Rodney grumbled. “Great.”
“They don’t bite.”
“They didn’t bite us then,” Rodney protested. “Apparently, they’ve eaten Lorne’s team.”
“Way to rally the troops, McKay.” Sheppard clapped his shoulder. Hard.
"It's manly touching! I'm allowed!"
Then Teyla walked in, tacked up and serene-faced, and the sergeant commonly known as Chuck dialed out.
*
The MALP showed only red-orange twilight and bare-limbed trees thickly nested with brown-winged spider bats. There was no sign of the major, no sign of anything, really, complete with fairly innocuous surface readings, so the four of them followed each other into the event horizon.
The planet on the other side was dust-bowl barren and hot, and Sheppard said, “Huh,” and, “Do you remember this place being so... empty?”
“This is very different from what I recall,” Teyla agreed, looking around, a cautious frown on her face.
The spider bats tittered, their leathery wings rustling with dry fwaps as they rose en masse, circled and settled down again in the silver trees overhead, bodies big as crows.
"Fwap" is so a word, and I will fight anyone who says differently.
“Spider bats are still thriving,” Rodney said mock-cheerfully, and then something blunt and hard knocked him in the back of the head and his vision grayed as he fell forward, Sheppard’s, “Rodney!” distant and tinny.
Spider bats show up in at least one more of Skoosie's fics. I'm afraid to ask her about them.
The dirt smelled like ash, burned against his skin as he slid roughly against it, and then another sharp blow blacked out even that.
*
Rodney woke with Sheppard hovering over him, a fresh cut across his forehead that ran close to his temple, and dark, hard eyes.
“What?” he snapped, and was surprised by the slight slur in his voice, the small movement and sound squeezing pain around the base of his skull. He groaned, eyes fluttering closed again.
“Rodney,” Sheppard said softly, tone completely undermining his expression. “Come on, you’re concussed. Stay awake for me.”
This is probably a bad place to say so, but I . . . I'm really loving rereading this and watching John instead of Rodney, knowing what we find out at the end and seeing John's actions through that lens. Because we've been kind of thrown off by the McShep not happening right away, and further by all of the plot that keeps happening, but the thread running through the whole thing is John's actions toward Rodney. And John's feelings are obvious in retrospect but the first time through they're just John-is-weird, especially if you're clueless like Rodney (or me--I think another thing that threw me is that I'm used to the POV character being the one in love with the oblivious other person, so I've been watching for Rodney to fall in love with John and not the other way around).
“Great,” Rodney breathed, looking up at the colonel again, noting the surrounding expanse of dirt... and more dirt. “What happened?”
Sheppard chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, the usual. Previously uninhabited planet not so uninhabited anymore.”
“Sir,” Major Lorne moved into view, filthy with mud and dried blood, “we think there’s a pattern with the spider bats.”
Every time I try to think of what a spider bat would look like, it's worse. Can't even imagine. Those things freak me out.
Rodney planted his palms on the ground and pushed, struggling into a sitting position, then turning to lean against the wall of the...pit. They were definitely in some sort of pit. Parrish was across from him, long legs folded up and big hands curving over the tops of his knees. His nails were black with dirt, ragged, one finger red-brown with blood.
Hey, Parrish! Cool! Parrish gets a lot of love for such a small canon presence. But then again, that never stopped us before. I do like the visual, though--Parrish is very very freaked out, such a contrast to Rodney, who by this point doesn't even bat an eye at spider bats and people being kidnapped. Okay, he bats an eye. But he's not hugging his knees, rocking back and forth, either. You can really see the development of Rodney's bravery over time.
Sergeant Myer was standing with his head tipped back, staring at the rapidly darkening sky.
“A helpful pattern?” Sheppard asked, shifting up on one knee.
“Just speculation at this point, sir, but they seem to be circling overhead every fifteen minutes or so.”
Sheppard narrowed his eyes, face thoughtful. “They circled right before we were attacked at the ‘gate.”
“Right.” Lorne nodded.
“A patrol, then.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Which doesn’t help us very much,” Rodney groused half-heartedly, wrapping a hand around his nape with a wince, “since we’re stuck in a hole. Unless the freaky spider bats have magical ropes attached to their freaky spindly legs. Where’s everyone else?”
Lorne grimaced. “Not sure about that.”
“Major, Colonel Sheppard.” Myer was still gazing steadily upward, body tense.
And then Rodney heard it, the eerily silent creatures taking flight, only sound the flap and glide of their wings as they cut through the air above them.
“Problem is,” Lorne whispered without moving, “we can’t figure out how long they’re within sight, since the bats only circle once.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Sheppard was eyeing up the walls and flexing his fingers, and Rodney knew he probably wasn’t going to like whatever plan he came up with, especially if it had anything to do with scaling the crumbling side of the pit with his bare hands.
“No idea,” Lorne said, just as Parrish offered, “We haven’t been able to see them.”
“It should be full dark soon,” Myer said.
Not that it’d do them much good, since the planet had three moons and, at the moment, lacked any indigenous cover. The pit was shadowed by the lip of the narrow opening, but moonlight already spilled down half of one side, washing the jagged rock in shades of bright white-gray.
Settling down next to Rodney, Sheppard asked, “How’s the head?”
“Broken. I think my brain is hemorrhaging.”
The colonel blinked at him. “You just want me to carry you.”
Rodney spluttered, “Like you even could,” before realizing that was more an insult to himself than Sheppard. He hastened to add, “I mean. You’re like a stick with hair,” waving a hand.
Sheppard’s brow furrowed. “McKay,” he drawled warningly, and Rodney gestured towards his head.
“Concussion!” he said. “You’re lucky I’m not hallucinating.”
“Are you sure you aren’t, Dr. McKay?” Major Lorne asked, grinning.
Rodney growled and Sheppard said, “Stop taunting the scientist, Major,” and Parrish gave a half-hysterical laugh, then choked out, completely off-topic, “Do you think Lieutenant Cadman is dead?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rodney snapped automatically, understandably upset by the nausea that statement inspired, since Laura Cadman was a massive pain in his ass and he’d wished for her death on several different specific occasions.
Shadows flashed overhead and Myer, clearly startled, glanced at his watch. “It’s been barely ten,” he said, and then a familiar dreadlocked head popped into view.
*
Ronon called them Sand Travelers, nomads who thrived by migrating through stargates, manipulating worlds to suit their survival needs - dry heat, mainly, everything within their reach dying by a slow roast.
So cool. I love the anthropologicrack that comes out of this fandom. Not that this particular detail is crack; it totally makes sense when you're running from the Wraith to hop from planet to planet. Everybody deals with a threat like that in their own way, and there are so many good fics that show all of the different ways: you hide or you worship them or you just try to live for the present.
The women - Ronon included - had been deemed honored guests, while the men had been relegated to the pit and eventual death. But the lieutenant’s attempt to dial Atlantis for help had been met with suspicion and displeasure and-
Rodney gaped out into the middle of the small, torch-lit camp. “Is this a harem? Are they-you-in a harem?” he hissed at Ronon.
“Shut up, McKay,” Sheppard snapped.
Rodney ignored him. “Why aren’t you wearing that?” he demanded in a hush, the press of his body in between the colonel and Ronon as they hid behind a thick, stout-trunked tree the only thing stopping him from flailing an arm. It was like an I Dream of Jeannie fantasy come to life.
*giggles* Rodney! So torn between hating Cadman and being sad she might have died and thinking someone he hates is hot.
Ronon shrugged. “Too big. They’re tiny.”
“They’re crazy,” Rodney countered emphatically, then cocked his head. “How tiny are we talking?”
“McKay,” Sheppard ground out through his teeth, “Shut. Up.”
“Ewok tiny? Normal compared to you tiny? As in, not freakishly big tiny?” He was rambling, he fully admitted it, but wow. Cadman was hot, and he really wanted to scrub his brain with bleach and forget he ever thought that.
He’d cherish the diaphanous harem pants forever, though.
And then a gaggle of smaller than average people spilled out of one of the tents, chattering non-stop in grating, argumentative tones, and Sheppard muttered, “It’s like attack of the Joe Pescis.”
They were roughly handling their P-90s, shaking them curiously and staring down the barrels, and Rodney winced. “Oh, that can’t end well.”
“Sir.” Major Lorne was crouched at their feet. “Looks like Lieutenant Cadman’s left ankle is chain-”
A spate of gunfire and alarmed shouts swallowed the major’s words, and then Ronon slipped forward, knocking the nearest torch into a billowing tent before swooping in to help Teyla with Cadman’s binds.
Soon, half the encampment was ablaze, thick black smoke hanging low and heavy in the still air, silver-dead trees lighting up like kindling, and Rodney didn’t remember much in the ensuing rush for the ‘gate, fire following them at a frightening pace, except that Sheppard had a hand wrapped tightly around his wrist.
I love the word choices throughout this, like "silver-dead trees." Beautiful.
*
“You don’t have black lung, Rodney,” Carson said wearily.
“My breathing’s impaired,” Rodney protested, palm to his chest. “Everything tastes like burnt hair. My lungs are charred from the inside out and don’t you have some sort of,” he wiggled his fingers, “voodoo cleansing serum?”
Carson frowned. “How long has your hand been like that?” he asked. Then, “Voodoo cleansing serum? You mean water?”
*snerk* "You mean water?"
Rodney rolled his eyes.
“You’ve been on oxygen already, Rodney. You’re fine, your vitals are fine, your head wound is healing nicely, you do not have black lung. The hand?”
“Oh, um,” Rodney wiggled his fingers again, holding the stained palm up in front of his face. It was dark red, almost brown like a birth mark. “A month? Since the planet that turned Ronon into a girl.”
Carson grasped his hand and tilted it towards the light. “And you’re not worried about that?” he asked, incredulous.
“No. Huh.” Lopsided scowl in place, he shook off Carson’s grip, because he should have been worried. He should’ve been knee-deep in panic for weeks, and it was honestly very weird that he wasn’t. He shrugged. “It’ll go away eventually.”
I admit that the symbolism of the stained hand still escapes me. I think I may need to make a flowchart, where pancakes = love = John = heart's desire; and stained hand = protection.
Carson’s eyes widened, expression turning towards concerned. “Maybe your head injury’s a wee bit more complicated than I thought.”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
Part Two