I Don't Like Mondays (SGA, Sheppard/Dex)
Title: I Don't Like Mondays
Fandom & Pairing: SGA. Sheppard/Dex
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Summary: Super quick ficlet for rubygirl29 , who's hopefully having a better day today. *hugs*
Christ, this day was never going to end.
He'd set his alarm for five, because the fifty wraith cruisers that had shown up out of nowhere on the sensors had kind of taken up his entire afternoon, yesterday.
McKay's discovery that an interface update had caused a glitch in the system hadn't come until well into the afternoon, and by that point, cramped from sitting in a cloaked jumper all freakin' day, John had been too exhausted to even enjoy the sight of the resulting verbal takedown of the entire science department.
Only Zelenka had escaped unharmed, but probably because he'd been trapped offworld all day long with Lorne's team.
He was, however, on the top of John's shit list. Because when someone's already got their alarm set for five in the goddamned morning, you don't radio them ten minutes earlier just to tell them that they wouldn't be able to shower.
It was nearly noon, now, and the heaters still weren't fixed. Not that it mattered, because this meeting was never going to end. Caldwell and Woolsey had been locked into debate over security protocols for the storage and transport of the kitchen's recyclables for two hours now.
Scratch that. Going on three. He must've slipped into a coma there, for a while.
Finally, Caldwell and Woolsey were winding up, and John was signing off on protocol updates that he hoped he'd never have to consider again.
But that only meant that he was free to go deal with the other seven layers of hell that had arisen during his managerial lockdown.
The repairs to fix yesterday's sensor glitch had, apparently, somehow, taken the entire reporting database offline. Zelenka was on it, but it was already looking like he'd be re-entering the last four mission reports all over again. The power had gone out in grid three because someone, leaving everyone in the south tower in the dark and overheating until McKay got it up again, which meant there were about three dozen off-duty Marines roaming the halls, cranky and bored.
He would've just shipped them off world, out to the beta site to finish laying in the foundation for the medical supply cache or play football or take freakin' naps or something, but Woolsey was adamant about keeping the gate offline until the crisis was over.
And through it all, Lorne looked like he was in a good mood, the bastard, clearly enjoying the hell out of reporting in that the Kefalian Ambassador, who had been slated to gate back home two hours ago, was apparently convinced that the gate going into lockdown signified his impending execution by enemy forces.
And Teyla, who'd been the only one to actually get anywhere with the ambassador, was still dealing with a colicky kid.
"He won't talk to anyone but you anyway." Lorne smirked. "Since he's decided this is a hostile political action."
"Where is he now?"
"He's set up camp outside the door to your quarters." Honestly? If Lorne kept up with this entire good humor thing, he was going to be filing John's reports for the next five months. "The linguists say he's singing protest songs."
Make that five years.
"Wonderful."
---
A thousand hours later, starving and exhausted, John finally made it into his quarters, resolutely ignoring the fact that he had to be back in Woolsey's office in less than five hours. He opened the door to find Ronon in his chair with his boots on his bed.
He looked like he'd just woken up.
"Where've you been all day, anyhow?"
"Hell. I've been in hell."
"You missed dinner," Ronon nodded over to the desk with a grimace, where he'd left a tray from the mess. A while ago, given the congealment.
Probably best to wait until breakfast. He was too tired to eat, anyhow.
"Thanks," he said, sitting on the bed to untie his boots with uncoordinated fingers. Stupid freakin' double knots.
"Beer's in the fridge."
"Huh?"
"Stole it from Lorne."
"Huh?"
"Might've suggested it would save him some paperwork."
"Hm." John lay back, feet still on the floor. He could fall asleep like this. Didn't really want to, but he could. "Hang on, how'd you know about that?"
"Guys down in the gym," Ronon sat up properly and stretched his arms, one of which had an ugly bruise forming. "In between sparring sessions."
"Hm." John closed his eyes. "You win?"
"Twelve out of twelve."
John added dealing with cranky, sore Marines to his to-deal-with-later list and closed his eyes.
Just for a minute.
"Come on," Ronon said, waking him up with a hand on his shoulder.
"Hm?" No. Don't wanna. John yawned and blearily looked at the ceiling. Mostly so he wouldn't accidentally glance over and see the clock sitting on the table, telling him what he already dreaded.
"Come on." Ronon grabbed his hands, dragging him up. Once he had his feet under him, he started in on John's shirt.
It was about then that John realized it wasn't fabric or leather under his hands, but skin. After a moment, he rallied.
"What're you…"
"Hot water's back on. I need a shower."
"So go take one."
"I will." Ronon moved on to the fly of his BDUs, swatting John's fumbling hands out of the way before shoving him back onto the bed. "Your socks are stupid."
"Hm."
"You smell almost as bad as I do."
"Uh-huh."
"The gate room is on fire."
"Hmm. Let it burn." John forced himself up in time to see Ronon shucking the last of his clothes, and didn't fight when he was again hauled to his feet.
Ronon kissed him in the shower, laughing at something, maybe John's failed attempt to kiss back.
---
John woke up at a quarter past five and felt Ronon stirring next to him.
They had half an hour before the alarm was set to go off.
Fandom & Pairing: SGA. Sheppard/Dex
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Summary: Super quick ficlet for rubygirl29 , who's hopefully having a better day today. *hugs*
Christ, this day was never going to end.
He'd set his alarm for five, because the fifty wraith cruisers that had shown up out of nowhere on the sensors had kind of taken up his entire afternoon, yesterday.
McKay's discovery that an interface update had caused a glitch in the system hadn't come until well into the afternoon, and by that point, cramped from sitting in a cloaked jumper all freakin' day, John had been too exhausted to even enjoy the sight of the resulting verbal takedown of the entire science department.
Only Zelenka had escaped unharmed, but probably because he'd been trapped offworld all day long with Lorne's team.
He was, however, on the top of John's shit list. Because when someone's already got their alarm set for five in the goddamned morning, you don't radio them ten minutes earlier just to tell them that they wouldn't be able to shower.
It was nearly noon, now, and the heaters still weren't fixed. Not that it mattered, because this meeting was never going to end. Caldwell and Woolsey had been locked into debate over security protocols for the storage and transport of the kitchen's recyclables for two hours now.
Scratch that. Going on three. He must've slipped into a coma there, for a while.
Finally, Caldwell and Woolsey were winding up, and John was signing off on protocol updates that he hoped he'd never have to consider again.
But that only meant that he was free to go deal with the other seven layers of hell that had arisen during his managerial lockdown.
The repairs to fix yesterday's sensor glitch had, apparently, somehow, taken the entire reporting database offline. Zelenka was on it, but it was already looking like he'd be re-entering the last four mission reports all over again. The power had gone out in grid three because someone, leaving everyone in the south tower in the dark and overheating until McKay got it up again, which meant there were about three dozen off-duty Marines roaming the halls, cranky and bored.
He would've just shipped them off world, out to the beta site to finish laying in the foundation for the medical supply cache or play football or take freakin' naps or something, but Woolsey was adamant about keeping the gate offline until the crisis was over.
And through it all, Lorne looked like he was in a good mood, the bastard, clearly enjoying the hell out of reporting in that the Kefalian Ambassador, who had been slated to gate back home two hours ago, was apparently convinced that the gate going into lockdown signified his impending execution by enemy forces.
And Teyla, who'd been the only one to actually get anywhere with the ambassador, was still dealing with a colicky kid.
"He won't talk to anyone but you anyway." Lorne smirked. "Since he's decided this is a hostile political action."
"Where is he now?"
"He's set up camp outside the door to your quarters." Honestly? If Lorne kept up with this entire good humor thing, he was going to be filing John's reports for the next five months. "The linguists say he's singing protest songs."
Make that five years.
"Wonderful."
---
A thousand hours later, starving and exhausted, John finally made it into his quarters, resolutely ignoring the fact that he had to be back in Woolsey's office in less than five hours. He opened the door to find Ronon in his chair with his boots on his bed.
He looked like he'd just woken up.
"Where've you been all day, anyhow?"
"Hell. I've been in hell."
"You missed dinner," Ronon nodded over to the desk with a grimace, where he'd left a tray from the mess. A while ago, given the congealment.
Probably best to wait until breakfast. He was too tired to eat, anyhow.
"Thanks," he said, sitting on the bed to untie his boots with uncoordinated fingers. Stupid freakin' double knots.
"Beer's in the fridge."
"Huh?"
"Stole it from Lorne."
"Huh?"
"Might've suggested it would save him some paperwork."
"Hm." John lay back, feet still on the floor. He could fall asleep like this. Didn't really want to, but he could. "Hang on, how'd you know about that?"
"Guys down in the gym," Ronon sat up properly and stretched his arms, one of which had an ugly bruise forming. "In between sparring sessions."
"Hm." John closed his eyes. "You win?"
"Twelve out of twelve."
John added dealing with cranky, sore Marines to his to-deal-with-later list and closed his eyes.
Just for a minute.
"Come on," Ronon said, waking him up with a hand on his shoulder.
"Hm?" No. Don't wanna. John yawned and blearily looked at the ceiling. Mostly so he wouldn't accidentally glance over and see the clock sitting on the table, telling him what he already dreaded.
"Come on." Ronon grabbed his hands, dragging him up. Once he had his feet under him, he started in on John's shirt.
It was about then that John realized it wasn't fabric or leather under his hands, but skin. After a moment, he rallied.
"What're you…"
"Hot water's back on. I need a shower."
"So go take one."
"I will." Ronon moved on to the fly of his BDUs, swatting John's fumbling hands out of the way before shoving him back onto the bed. "Your socks are stupid."
"Hm."
"You smell almost as bad as I do."
"Uh-huh."
"The gate room is on fire."
"Hmm. Let it burn." John forced himself up in time to see Ronon shucking the last of his clothes, and didn't fight when he was again hauled to his feet.
Ronon kissed him in the shower, laughing at something, maybe John's failed attempt to kiss back.
---
John woke up at a quarter past five and felt Ronon stirring next to him.
They had half an hour before the alarm was set to go off.
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