fic: Wrong Kind Of Guy - Part Four [PG-13]

[tielan]

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

TITLE: Wrong Kind Of Guy - Part Four
SUMMARY: The orangutang had not only managed the basic knit-and purl, but done some complex cable-stitch into the bargain.
CATEGORY: crackfic, shermer_high AU
RATING: PG-13
NOTES: I need an American beta - preferably someone who remembers high school, subject, social terms and stuff like that. Thanks to the readers who keep leaving feedback, encouraging, and prodding!

Part Three

Wrong Kind Of Guy - Part Four

Senior English Lit. was her last class of what had been a long day.

Elizabeth usually sat up the front of the class. It was easier to see, and Mr. O'Neill was one of her favourite teachers. It helped that he was good-looking in a mature kind of way - not the movie-star cute of Mr. Jackson or the guy-next-door adorability of Mr. Quinn - and had a great sense of humour. He liked Elizabeth, too, mostly because she paid attention and got good grades.

But when she entered the room, not all the students had arrived, and Ronon was sitting three quarters of the way up the back of the class.

She slipped into the desk in front of his, sitting sideways so she could easily talk to him. "You weren't at lunch today."

If he had been, she would have sat with him. As it was, she'd been mobbed by three girls who wanted to get all the summer gossip about John - not exactly her idea of a peaceful lunchtime.

He was sketching on a sheet of paper. "I ate elsewhere." The glance he gave her was both amused and challenging. "Miss me?"

A flush rose in her cheeks and she turned around and began unpacking her things.

"Did you get into trouble with your parents?"

"No," she dismissed. "Just the usual questions over dinner."

"And what did you tell them?" He muttered as their teacher walked into the room.

She glanced at Mr. O'Neill as he put down a folder of notes, and took out a box of chalks.

"I told them that we shared a class, and you were teaching me some self-defence stuff, of course," she muttered back before she paid attention to the lesson.

Mr. O'Neill wasn't as strict as some of the teachers who required the class' silence the instant they walked into the room. He was generally a nice, easygoing guy unless he thought you were wasting his time or wasting your potential. Either would get you the sarcastic side of his personality, instead of the dryly witty - and while Elizabeth could and had taken both, she preferred the dryly witty.

"Now," he said, tossing his chalk in the air and catching without even looking at where it fell, "I'm fairly sure that most of you won't have actually read the poems I set you, let alone made notes on them. So let's see a show of hands. Who read the poems?"

Elizabeth raised her hand along with about three quarters of the class.

"Keep your hand up if you made notes on the poems." Only about a quarter of the people who'd put their hands up kept them up. "Put your hand down if making notes involved writing, 'This is boring, I can't believe O'Neill is going to make us study this.'"

One girl put down her hand, grinning. Mr. O'Neill waved a finger at her. "Very funny, Erica. All right then. For those of you who didn't read any of the poems, you can take out Rupert Brooke's The Soldier and read it now. Those of you who read but didn't take notes, you can use this time to take notes on that one poem. And those of you who read and took notes can bask in the glory of self-satisfaction and think of questions to ask me, keeping in mind that I will probably turf the question out to the class in general. So if you want to be mean and nasty to your fellow students, you'll never have a better time. Elizabeth?"

She'd left her hand up when the others put theirs down. "Why did you get us to read The Soldier, Mr O'Neill?"

Dark eyes were mild and astonished, but good-humour lurked in the back of them. "Are you accusing me of nefarious intent, Miss Weir?"

"Well, he's an English poet."

"So is Shakespeare. And Milton, Barrett-Browning, and Tennyson, all of whom I assigned for homework." Mr. O'Neill spoke very mildly, but she could sense his amusement. It gave her pause because she had the feeling she was walking right into the parlour of the spider. And everyone was staring at her. "America doesn't have a monopoly on good anything, Miss Weir, and most especially not on good literature."

"I never said we do." Elizabeth replied steadily. "But The Soldier is talking about an English soldier who's saying that when he dies, some part of a field in another country is always going to be England because he's buried there."

"So it does," said Mr. O'Neill. "And?"

Her cheeks were flushing because she could feel that she was about to be taken down a peg, but she really did want to know the answer. "What's that got to do with us? I mean," she added hastily when he arched one of his eyebrows at her, "we're not English."

"But they're generally our allies," said Katerina Bishop.

"That doesn't mean we study their poetry."

"What about 'knowing thy enemy'?"

"Well, they're not our enemies for a start," said Chad Rollins. "But I'm with Liz. It's nice poetry, sure, but the guy dies away from home in a war and goes on about how he's forever English. If he wasn't, he wouldn't have gone to fight."

"So you're saying that only the people who are willing to fight for their country really love their country?" Elizabeth demanded.

"No," Chad retorted. "I'm saying that it's obvious he loved his country since he was willing to die for it. Not anything else. And I'm on your side about him being English and what it has to do with us?"

One of the reasons Elizabeth liked English Lit. was precisely this: because the dicussion often turned into a free-for-all. In spite of that, Mr. O'Neill never lost control of the class or lost track of where they were, and he had an ability to let the topic run its course, gently steering it in the directions he wanted.

"Patriotism."

Elizabeth turned around as silence descended on the class. She wasn't the only one surprised that Ronon had said anything in class.

Teaching orangutans to knit, she thought, both hiding her chagrin at the thought and her grin at the astonished expressions of the other kids.

"Yes, Ronon?"

"It's not about England or the English," Ronon said after a moment. "It's about patriotism." He didn't quite squirm with all the eyes on him, but Elizabeth figured it came pretty close.

"And?"

"Patriotism isn't limited to a single nation, any more than poetry is."

"Thank you, Mr. Dex, for that insight," said Mr. O'Neill, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "Patriotism isn't unique to the United States, any more than it was to the Englishman who wrote this poem. But the ideas this guy had are the same for a lot of people in and out of our armed forces." He looked around the room. "Last week, when I gave the introduction to this class, I asked you to consider what makes good poetry."

"The themes," someone said across the room. "Like Shakespeare and human nature."

Mr. O'Neill pointed at Brianne. "Exactly. Themes that transcend race and nation, and if we had aliens, hopefully them, too - Star Trek and emotionless races, notwithstanding. It's the themes you're going to read about in these poems that make them worth studying, decades and centuries after they were written. Styles change, the human race doesn't. Remember that."

The rest of the lesson was mostly spent reading the poems, sometimes silently, sometimes out loud. Mr. O'Neill generally liked to throw ideas out and see who took them up, or set people up to debate against each other. His only rule was no name-calling and no insults to anyone's intelligence.

At the end of the class, they were assigned partnered work for the whole semester. "Find someone in the class that you can work with for at least two weeks. I want the pair of you to each find a poem that contains the same themes as the poem we're studying that week."

Elizabeth sighed quietly to herself while others grumbled at the extra work.

"One poem per week," Mr. O'Neill said, firmly. "There are whole shelves in the library dedicated to poetry, and you should be able to pick a book off any shelf and find something suitable if you've come up with the correct theme." The dark eyes gleamed with amusement.

"So what are we doing with the extra poems?" John Charlwood demanded.

"We'll have one period each week where you discuss all three poems with your assignment partner and study the themes and ideas that each poem represents and how the poet conveys it." The lazy smile tugged to one side of his mouth. "And I expect you to surprise me with your wit and brilliance in dissecting these ideas."

Yeah, like that was going to happen.

Then again, Ronon had come up with an answer for Mr. O'Neill, quite beyond anyone's expectation. The orangutang had not only managed the basic knit-and purl, but done some complex cable-stitch into the bargain.

And if she took this simile too much further, it was going to get ridiculous.

While the other students all started catching each other's eyes and leaning over to try to arrange partnering with the people they liked, Elizabeth turned around to look at Ronon and arched an eyebrow.

"Okay," he said, half-smiling, although whether he was smiling at himself or at her, she didn't know.

She was a little surprised to discover she didn't really care, either.

And she ignored both the incredulous look of her usual study partner, Kate Heightmeyer, and Mr. O'Neill's amused glance when she turned back around.

--

When the final bell rang, she headed for her locker, passing Teyla on the way. The other girl seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere, because she didn't stop to talk and moved on with nothing more than a wave.

Elizabeth took her time sorting through her books. John would wait. He'd probably be flirting with all the sophs and juniors who passed by. And there were more than a few who thought that 'bed head John Sheppard' was pretty cute.

Then again, Elizabeth thought 'bed head John' was pretty cute. She just had access to his less charming nature.

Like the scowl he turned on her when she finally reached the gate. "Took you long enough," he grumbled. "I was about to go and look for you."

"Temper, temper," Elizabeth retorted, pausing next to him. "I'm ready to go now."

They started off down the street, John ambling along with his bag hanging off one shoulder while Elizabeth strolled along, wondering why he was so grumpy.

"What's with you?" She asked at last, irked by his sullen behaviour. "Didn't Chaya want to talk to you today?"

His scowl only intensified. "I'd just like to get home sometime before midnight. And you can't say anything about Chaya. I've heard about you and Ronon Dex!"

Mischief pricked her. "He's not bad in bed, actually," she said offhandedly, then smirked to herself as John stopped dead and she kept walking.

"You slept with him?"

She turned, saw his expression and giggled, leaning against the fence of a nearby house.

John made a face at her, unimpressed. "Very funny," he said. "You know, I was all ready to go dig out my dad's Sig."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and pushed off, continuing home. "As if you have the right!"

After a few steps, he caught up with her again as they angled through the nearby park. Kids from the local middle school screamed and squealed on the play equipment, and several girls were holding some kind of 'club meeting' in the shade of a big oak, and she kept off the path, preferring the feel of the grass beneath the soles of her shoes

He scuffed along in the grass, hands in his pockets as he asked, "So what is the deal with you and Dex?"

She shrugged. "He walked me home twice and we're working on a project in English Lit," she said with a sideways glance. Was he jealous?

"So you're not dating?"

Elizabeth felt a warm glow go through her. Yeah, he was jealous. "It's a project," she said, dismissively. "Not rings and vows and happily-ever-after."

He grunted something unintelligible, and while she was a bit disconcerted by this response - she'd thought that maybe he might finally ask her out - she didn't bother asking for clarification. When he wanted to talk, John could be quite erudite. And when he didn't want, he could be downright dour.

This afternoon, he seemed to be leaning towards untalkative, because nothing was said all the way through the park and down the alley. Whether he was thinking about Ronon Dex and Elizabeth's interaction with him, or something else entirely, Elizabeth didn't know.

And then, as they stepped out into the street again, they met Kolya going the other way.

Kolya and two of his thugs.

"Sheppard."

"Kolya."

"And Elizabeth."

Elizabeth met him gaze for gaze and told herself she wasn't going to be intimidated by him. "Kolya."

The older guy eyed them both. "Very cute," he said dryly. "Sheppard and girlfriend, out for a walk on a lovely autumn day. Picturesque."

John had shifted around, subtly putting himself between Elizabeth and Kolya. She appreciated the protectiveness, but after the lesson from Ronan the other afternoon, she didn't figure it was necessary. She might not be able to take Kolya on the way he could, but she could break a hold, or give him something to think about at least until she'd run a long way away.

At the least, she could try.

"What do you want, Kolya?"

Elizabeth took John's arm, urging him to leave. "John." They could walk away if John didn't take offence. And he would. If they stayed around, Kolya would say something to get John angry, and John would retaliate, ignoring the fact that there were three of them against John and her.

He shook her off. "You don't own this town, Kolya."

The older guy smirked. "Neither do you, Sheppard. We're a lot alike, you know," he said. John opened his mouth to protest, "Oh, we are," he said. "We're possessive and dominant and we take care of our own." The dark eyes flickered to Elizabeth. "Some of us better than others."

John's whole body tensed, he took on that edgy look he got when it came to a fight.

"What do you mean?"

"John," she hissed. Of course, he ignored her.

Kolya smirked.

"I heard she had a different guy on Monday," said one of Kolya's sidekicks. Neither were as tall as Kolya, but one watched them with the calculating expression of a politician, and the other's gaze was flat and hostile. The one who spoke was the hostile one, tall and solid, without Kolya's feline grace. "Needed a strong arm to cling to."

She moved out from behind John in spite of it. There was no way she was going to let him fight her battles for her - and no way she was going to let that pass. "I did not need--"

Kolya hadn't taken his eyes from John's face. "Guess she likes things with a bit more...texture than a white prettyboy..."

"Shut up," John snapped, his face flaming. "We're not--"

The politician smirked, but muttered, "You know, Aaron, he mightn't know about the other guy."

"Like hell," Kolya replied. "He knows. Can't keep his girl. It's why he's so edgy."

Screw this. Elizabeth knew a bad situation when she was in the middle of one. And this was bad. She dug her nails into John's arm, hauling him away while Kolya and the others laughed.

Of course, they didn't get any further than a few steps out of the alleyway before John yanked himself from her grasp and glared at her. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm stopping us from getting further in trouble with them!" Elizabeth retorted. "Keep walking."

"Why should I?"

"Because I said so! They're still watching us."

John glanced back. Elizabeth didn't. She didn't need to. Instead, she grabbed for John's arm and continued to haul him along. She would have grabbed for his hand if Kolya hadn't made the crack about her being 'John's girl'. Elizabeth Weir wasn't any guy's girl - least of all John Sheppard's.

"What? Stop that!"

"Keep walking," she insisted. "They're just trying to provoke you into a fight, John!"

"Well, it's working!"

"I can see that!"

He glared at her. "What was all that about Monday? Another guy?" His eyes widened. "Ronon?"

Elizabeth kept walking. "If you keep walking, I'll tell you," she said. Of course, if he didn't keep walking, then he'd probably work it out for himself - not that there was anything to tell, she added mentally.

They were past the shops and just at the edge of their section of suburbia, cutting through the local development park, when John spoke again, grabbing her bag and pulling her to a stop. "Okay, spill."

Elizabeth turned. "There's nothing to spill," she snapped. "Ronon walked me home the other day."

"And you met Kolya." John's eyes narrowed as he folded his arms across his chest. A second later, he dropped them. "Wait, the other day? I heard he walked you home yesterday!"

"He did both days."

"You asked him to?"

"I didn't ask him the first time," Elizabeth retorted, remembering storming along the line of shops while Ronon followed her like a big puppy. "He just...came along. And I couldn't persuade him otherwise!"

"But you asked him back!"

"He offered!"

"And you accepted," John sneered.

"Of course I accepted! I don't refuse assistance when it's offered!"

"Even from strange guys!"

Great. Of all the times he had to start getting jealous - and of all the people - he'd pick the guy that she'd only really met a couple of days ago. And all Ronon had done was walk her home and taught her some self-defence.

"He's not a strange guy," she said. "He goes to our school!"

"Nobody knows anything about him - he might be a killer or something!"

Elizabeth couldn't believe he'd just said that. "God, you're melodramatic, John!" She pushed past him, irritated with his behaviour.

"I'm just looking out for you!"

"You didn't do such a great job the other day!"

"What?"

Damn. She kept walking, waiting for him to catch up before she explained. But she wasn't going to stop walking. "Kolya caught me just coming out of the alley on Monday. Ronon interrupted him. He walked me home. That's all."

"And yesterday?"

"Yesterday, we had lunch when Rodney cancelled on me because he wanted to flirt with Ms. Carter. And he asked if I wanted to be walked home again."

"And you accepted? He might have been trying to take advantage of you."

Again with the melodramatic. He was usually scathing of the guys who had obvious crushes on her - Radek Zelenka and Ben Maroney were particular favourites - but this was a new angle of attack.

"Oddly enough, he didn't," she said with more than a touch of sarcasm. "And he offered to teach me how to defend myself--"

"Does it occur to you that he's offering a lot of stuff? What's he want in return?"

They'd reached the edge of the development park, before they crossed the road that would lead them into suburbia.

She glared at him. "Maybe he was just being nice!"

"And maybe he's trying to get into your pants!" John snapped. "Did you think about that?"

"Of course I did," she said. "But they're my pants and I get to choose who gets into them!"

Later, she reflected that saying that was probably the last straw for John. He scowled. "So you are dating him?"

"Are you listening to anything I'm saying? I'm not dating him, but if I did it wouldn't be any of your business! You don't run my life, you know, John!"

"I'm the one who Kolya's implying can't look after his people!"

Elizabeth saw red. A bright scarlet haze dropped down over her face and she gritted her teeth. "I am not one of your possessions, John! We're friends! That doesn't mean you get any say in my life - and this is not about your ego! You were at football practise, so I walked home myself the way I usually do, and it just so happened that I ran into Kolya!"

"And Ronon Dex rescued you?"

Heaven save her from touchy boys. "Look, he helped me out of a bad situation! You wouldn't be so stupid about this if it was Rodney!"

"Rodney couldn't save you from getting wet in a thunderstorm if he had an umbrella and a raincoat," John said, scathingly.

Elizabeth slapped him without even thinking. Not hard, and not with any kind of viciousness behind it, but a firm slap nevertheless.

"I can't believe you said that," she said, appalled that he could talk about Rodney so cuttingly.

No, Rodney wasn't sporty or physical the way John was, but he had brains enough to be aceing senior year when he was only junior age. And she'd thought John respected that - even if he was the captain and star quarterback of the football team.

John's hands fisted by his sides. "You slapped me." He sounded both shocked and angry, but if his first instinct was to hit back, at least he wasn't giving in to it.

"For being an idiot!" Elizabeth said. She was furious with him, both for his willful blindness over her friendship with Ronon and his arrogant words about Rodney.

"Look, it's not that I don't like Rodney, but you have to admit, the guy gets self-involved at times--"

"Rodney gets self-involved?" She couldn't help her snort as she glared at him. "And what do you think you're doing now? Get over yourself, John! None of this has to do with you except where Kolya is making it about you! I am not your property, I am not your responsibility, and I'm certainly not going to stand here and listen to you make an even bigger mountain out of a molehill!"

She pushed past him, fuming.

Stupid boys and the stupid egos! First, Kolya and his assumption that he could harass her, just because he thought she was John's girl; then John's possessive behaviour - which she might have enjoyed under other circumstances - but which was completely pissing her off right now.

John trailed behind her, probably still angry that she'd slapped him. Either that or sulking.

Whichever it was, it hadn't abated by the time they reached her house. "Bye," she said, feeling she owed him that much.

He didn't even respond, mooching along like some kid in a comic strip, all despondent.

Fine.

Elizabeth went into her house in an entirely bad mood. She was more than relieved to discover her mom wasn't home yet, and dumped her bag on the table and herself in a chair to stare at the table, tears stinging her eyes.

Why were boys such pricks?

Elizabeth Weir didn't belong to John Sheppard, whatever Kolya - or even John - thought. She wasn't some possession to be protected and fussed over and only thought about when he wanted to think about her. And she wasn't one of his little clique of admirers from the cheerleading squad - or Chaya Sar who was all big eyes and sultry looks when John was around.

If John thought he could snap his fingers and find her waiting there patiently and faithfully, he had another think coming, no matter how cute he might be!

For some reason, as she got herself an afternoon snack, Elizabeth found herself thinking of the last couple of days and the walk back with Ronon. Okay, so he postured a bit, too - the knife in his belt? What was with that, anyway? And the mock-fight out in the backyard where he'd taken her down with barely the blink of an eye.

But there was definitely something to be said for a guy who knew when to speak up and when to shut up.

As she pulled out her English lit. textbook and flipped through to the poem she was supposed to go through tonight, Elizabeth fumed.

Fine. Screw John and his stupid macho image. Screw him and his arrogance. Cute did not entitle a guy to walk all over her and she wasn't going to put up with it.

John Sheppard could go to hell.

- TBC -

Part Five