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OK, FINE. I’M WRITING THIS DAMN STORY. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?
Rodney doesn’t drink much. It’s not for lack of opportunity – despite what he knows people say about him, he does have a social life outside of his lab. He goes out, goes out with other people, goes out on dates with other living, breathing people. He asks people out on dates, and they say yes, and they go, and it’s all very straightforward, except sometimes they ask him first, which tends to startle him. Still, when you’re as brilliant as Rodney McKay is, working on the kind of stuff he works on, you get used to being startled by the incredible things the world does. You get used to it, or you get killed, usually in wildly improbable ways.
Rodney is completely capable of functioning while startled, so he says yes, and he goes on dates with people. Not so much on Atlantis, of course, which for one thing is mostly like one enormous lab everywhere you go, with so many things to do and see and fix and discover that he really, really doesn’t have that much time for things that don’t involve saving them all. For another, Atlantis is the mother of all closed communities, the great holy fishbowl in the sky, and he’s been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. Atlantis brings a whole new dimension to dating within the workplace, and even Rodney’s socially aware enough to know that that’s something you really, really don’t want to do if you can avoid it.
Still, he dates, some, if only because he knows, intellectually, that variation in social environments is said to be important. Personally, he likes his unvarying social landscape – the lab, yelling at Kavanagh and arguing with Zelenka; meetings, rolling his eyes at Caldwell and arguing with Elizabeth; missions, running after Teyla and Ronon and arguing with Sheppard. Constants are a good thing, he thinks. Still, Rodney McKay is a rational man. He may not trust medicine very much, but there’s no sense in shooting yourself in the foot (or, rather, in some part of your psyche) when you can avoid it easily by asking a pretty girl out once in a while. If it’s important for people to get out more, then by God, Rodney McKay will get out as much as is necessary.
So he dates – awkwardly, because he’s still not good at this, probably never will be, doesn't really want to be – and they offer him wine, sometimes, or beer, or whatever the gate techs are brewing in the still this week. There’s alcohol, too, on off-world missions, usually something that resembles beer in method, at least, if not in flavor, or else a sort of fruit-punch. Either way, he drinks some and talks a little extra, to cover it up. They never notice.
He doesn’t like to drink because he doesn’t respond to alcohol like other people do. Most people have a drink, or three, or eight, and they get loose-limbed and friendly, chatty, gesturing too widely and speaking too loudly. Some people get mopey, or angry, or violent, and some just get strange. Rodney’s a scientist, and he’s observed them all, watched them laugh and shout and scream and cry, and everything he’s seen has just gone towards his theory: in this, as in so many other things, Rodney McKay is not like the others. It’s completely unfair, but Rodney’s gotten used to it. At this point, he thinks he’d be more surprised if, for once, he ate something and had a completely average response to it.
When he drinks alcohol, nothing happens. He doesn’t feel any different from normal, no matter how much he drinks – and he’s tested this hypothesis. He can get sick, if he drinks enough, but he never feels any more relaxed, any happier. He’s drunk so much that the hangover lasted for days, but he’s never been drunk.
The doctors he’s talked to about this all agree: they don’t know why it happens. They all say something vague about different body chemistries, connections in the brain, the body processing chemicals; many words to say that they just don’t know. Buck up, sonny boy, the second-to-most-recent quack had said, just think of all the embarrassing stories you’re sparing yourself! Rodney had thought of that, and on his way out had asked to be transferred to another physician. Because, really, if the man was going to insist on being depressing, Rodney had better things to do with his time. The most recent doctor had been sympathetic, and Rodney had been about to ask her on an alcohol-free date, figuring that she already knew all of his stupid body tricks and probably would manage not to serve him anything he couldn’t eat. Then, though, there had been Antarctica, and the chair, the drone, Sheppard, Atlantis, and he didn’t think about Dr. Desmoulins very much any more.
In Atlantis, Rodney doesn’t think about a lot of things, and he doesn’t drink, except on those rare occasions when he absolutely has to. The Christmas party is not any such occasion, although, Elizabeth tells him, he does absolutely have to be there. This is Christmas, and they are alive, and they are going to celebrate that fact, god damn it, every single one of them, that includes you, Rodney McKay, even if all you do is lurk in the corner. Which, he notes, is exactly what he’s doing. He smiles at Elizabeth, even though she’s not actually anywhere near him, right now. He can still hear her voice, ringing in his ears like the sound of the bell-trees on MXU-087.
“Why, McKay, you’re just full of surprises,” says a voice from behind him. He spins to face it, wobbles, nearly catches himself on the edge of the table he’s been lurking by, misses, and falls onto John Sheppard. Somehow, he is not surprised. Sheppard staggers for a moment, trying to brace his weight without dropping the brightly-wrapped package he’s carrying, and then tilts him until he’s vertical again. When Rodney wobbles, Sheppard puts the box down and steers him into a chair. He’s talking all the while, but Rodney doesn’t bother to turn the sounds into words. There’s something odd about this situation, and he knows that if he just ignores everyone else for a while, eventually the rest of his brain will pick up the pattern his subconscious has already noticed. He just waits, looking around, and his attention seizes on the box.
Sheppard is ignoring it now in favor of giving Rodney a bemused look, but Rodney points, redirecting the focus. John catches his arm when it smacks against his chest and places it gently on the arm of Rodney’s chair, curling the fingers around the end of the arm rest.
“No, Sheppard, you don’t – stop, no, you don’t – the box, what’s in the box? - it’s important, I know it is, come on, don’t be – stop, no, stop it, stop being so –” Without even looking, John reaches over and back, grabbing the box and setting it in Rodney’s lap. They both stare at it for a while, and then Rodney stares at John, who’s still staring at the box, and if the box could only stare at Rodney they’d have a loop, perpetual attentional motion, it would be – but, no, John’s looking up, now, looking at Rodney and shaking his head.
“Christ, McKay,” Sheppard says, “you’re really trashed, aren’t you?” Rodney starts to explain that no, he’s not drunk, can’t get drunk, and wasn’t Sheppard paying attention on MIY-986, or, no, maybe it was – “it’s a present, genius. Will you open it, already?” John’s got a camera, now – where did he get that? – and he’s giving Rodney a present, and something, somewhere, is not making sense. He’s trying to tell John that, but John doesn’t get it, just shakes his head and says “not from me, from Carter, back on Earth. She asked me to see that you got it. Now come on, are you going to open it or do I have to do it for you?”
Rodney is confused, but he’s used to confused, and it’s never stopped him from doing what needs to be done. He opens the present, layer after layer, then looks up into the glare of the camera flash, blinking past the dancing lights to look at John.
“It’s pink, John,” he says, and the chair wobbles underneath him. “Why,” he asks, trying to keep his balance, “is it pink?” The chair is winning, though, and he slumps sideways, letting it do what it chooses with his mass. Dimly, he hears the crowd around him – and since when is there a crowd? – talking about the fruit wine that MEJ-976 makes, and how it must be hitting McKay harder than he thought, and please, sir, take another picture, no, I won’t do anything inappropriate with it, I swear.
It comes to him, then, and he stands up, because this is important. The ground dips and weaves under him, but that’s fine, that’s only to be expected, and John catches him, anyway. He leans up, looks John in the eye, and says, over the laughter he can hear but is choosing to ignore, that he’s made a great discovery. John, of course, asks what it is, and Rodney, of course, tells him. That’s the way they work, although normally they aren’t leaning on each other. Still, that puts him close enough to poke John’s chest, and he does, on each word, for emphasis.
“I. Am. Completely. And. Ut-ter-ly (which gets three taps, one per syllable). Drunk.”
Then John’s nodding, and the world is spinning, and Rodney is floating, warm and safe and suddenly, deliriously happy. He’s in the City of the Ancients, and they’re alive, and they’re safe, and he has work he loves, and friends he loves, and a home. He’s really, really drunk. Life, Rodney thinks, is good.
When he wakes up the next morning, there’s a t-shirt on the pillow next to him and a glass of water on his night table. The shirt is bright pink, and says, in yellow lettering, I’m not BOSSY… He flips it over, and reads: …I just have better IDEAS.
He smiles, and it stays.
I'm actually rather proud of myself: not only am I actually writing something, I'm writing all of it, and not giving up after a page or so of merblewerble. Also, interestingly, each part of this has been about twice as long as the part before. Also-also, each part has been posted earlier than the one before. Life is winning, but I'm catching up!
Also, I've a question: does there need to be more? it feels like it might be done, but then there's getting Rodney to actually wear the shirt. I think it happens for the first time after a mission, when his uniforms are all slimed and there's something good in the mess and he just doesn't have time for this. Anyone got a POV suggestion? I don't really want to do Rodney again, just yet...I was thinking possibly Ronon? Let me know.
Rodney doesn’t drink much. It’s not for lack of opportunity – despite what he knows people say about him, he does have a social life outside of his lab. He goes out, goes out with other people, goes out on dates with other living, breathing people. He asks people out on dates, and they say yes, and they go, and it’s all very straightforward, except sometimes they ask him first, which tends to startle him. Still, when you’re as brilliant as Rodney McKay is, working on the kind of stuff he works on, you get used to being startled by the incredible things the world does. You get used to it, or you get killed, usually in wildly improbable ways.
Rodney is completely capable of functioning while startled, so he says yes, and he goes on dates with people. Not so much on Atlantis, of course, which for one thing is mostly like one enormous lab everywhere you go, with so many things to do and see and fix and discover that he really, really doesn’t have that much time for things that don’t involve saving them all. For another, Atlantis is the mother of all closed communities, the great holy fishbowl in the sky, and he’s been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. Atlantis brings a whole new dimension to dating within the workplace, and even Rodney’s socially aware enough to know that that’s something you really, really don’t want to do if you can avoid it.
Still, he dates, some, if only because he knows, intellectually, that variation in social environments is said to be important. Personally, he likes his unvarying social landscape – the lab, yelling at Kavanagh and arguing with Zelenka; meetings, rolling his eyes at Caldwell and arguing with Elizabeth; missions, running after Teyla and Ronon and arguing with Sheppard. Constants are a good thing, he thinks. Still, Rodney McKay is a rational man. He may not trust medicine very much, but there’s no sense in shooting yourself in the foot (or, rather, in some part of your psyche) when you can avoid it easily by asking a pretty girl out once in a while. If it’s important for people to get out more, then by God, Rodney McKay will get out as much as is necessary.
So he dates – awkwardly, because he’s still not good at this, probably never will be, doesn't really want to be – and they offer him wine, sometimes, or beer, or whatever the gate techs are brewing in the still this week. There’s alcohol, too, on off-world missions, usually something that resembles beer in method, at least, if not in flavor, or else a sort of fruit-punch. Either way, he drinks some and talks a little extra, to cover it up. They never notice.
He doesn’t like to drink because he doesn’t respond to alcohol like other people do. Most people have a drink, or three, or eight, and they get loose-limbed and friendly, chatty, gesturing too widely and speaking too loudly. Some people get mopey, or angry, or violent, and some just get strange. Rodney’s a scientist, and he’s observed them all, watched them laugh and shout and scream and cry, and everything he’s seen has just gone towards his theory: in this, as in so many other things, Rodney McKay is not like the others. It’s completely unfair, but Rodney’s gotten used to it. At this point, he thinks he’d be more surprised if, for once, he ate something and had a completely average response to it.
When he drinks alcohol, nothing happens. He doesn’t feel any different from normal, no matter how much he drinks – and he’s tested this hypothesis. He can get sick, if he drinks enough, but he never feels any more relaxed, any happier. He’s drunk so much that the hangover lasted for days, but he’s never been drunk.
The doctors he’s talked to about this all agree: they don’t know why it happens. They all say something vague about different body chemistries, connections in the brain, the body processing chemicals; many words to say that they just don’t know. Buck up, sonny boy, the second-to-most-recent quack had said, just think of all the embarrassing stories you’re sparing yourself! Rodney had thought of that, and on his way out had asked to be transferred to another physician. Because, really, if the man was going to insist on being depressing, Rodney had better things to do with his time. The most recent doctor had been sympathetic, and Rodney had been about to ask her on an alcohol-free date, figuring that she already knew all of his stupid body tricks and probably would manage not to serve him anything he couldn’t eat. Then, though, there had been Antarctica, and the chair, the drone, Sheppard, Atlantis, and he didn’t think about Dr. Desmoulins very much any more.
In Atlantis, Rodney doesn’t think about a lot of things, and he doesn’t drink, except on those rare occasions when he absolutely has to. The Christmas party is not any such occasion, although, Elizabeth tells him, he does absolutely have to be there. This is Christmas, and they are alive, and they are going to celebrate that fact, god damn it, every single one of them, that includes you, Rodney McKay, even if all you do is lurk in the corner. Which, he notes, is exactly what he’s doing. He smiles at Elizabeth, even though she’s not actually anywhere near him, right now. He can still hear her voice, ringing in his ears like the sound of the bell-trees on MXU-087.
“Why, McKay, you’re just full of surprises,” says a voice from behind him. He spins to face it, wobbles, nearly catches himself on the edge of the table he’s been lurking by, misses, and falls onto John Sheppard. Somehow, he is not surprised. Sheppard staggers for a moment, trying to brace his weight without dropping the brightly-wrapped package he’s carrying, and then tilts him until he’s vertical again. When Rodney wobbles, Sheppard puts the box down and steers him into a chair. He’s talking all the while, but Rodney doesn’t bother to turn the sounds into words. There’s something odd about this situation, and he knows that if he just ignores everyone else for a while, eventually the rest of his brain will pick up the pattern his subconscious has already noticed. He just waits, looking around, and his attention seizes on the box.
Sheppard is ignoring it now in favor of giving Rodney a bemused look, but Rodney points, redirecting the focus. John catches his arm when it smacks against his chest and places it gently on the arm of Rodney’s chair, curling the fingers around the end of the arm rest.
“No, Sheppard, you don’t – stop, no, you don’t – the box, what’s in the box? - it’s important, I know it is, come on, don’t be – stop, no, stop it, stop being so –” Without even looking, John reaches over and back, grabbing the box and setting it in Rodney’s lap. They both stare at it for a while, and then Rodney stares at John, who’s still staring at the box, and if the box could only stare at Rodney they’d have a loop, perpetual attentional motion, it would be – but, no, John’s looking up, now, looking at Rodney and shaking his head.
“Christ, McKay,” Sheppard says, “you’re really trashed, aren’t you?” Rodney starts to explain that no, he’s not drunk, can’t get drunk, and wasn’t Sheppard paying attention on MIY-986, or, no, maybe it was – “it’s a present, genius. Will you open it, already?” John’s got a camera, now – where did he get that? – and he’s giving Rodney a present, and something, somewhere, is not making sense. He’s trying to tell John that, but John doesn’t get it, just shakes his head and says “not from me, from Carter, back on Earth. She asked me to see that you got it. Now come on, are you going to open it or do I have to do it for you?”
Rodney is confused, but he’s used to confused, and it’s never stopped him from doing what needs to be done. He opens the present, layer after layer, then looks up into the glare of the camera flash, blinking past the dancing lights to look at John.
“It’s pink, John,” he says, and the chair wobbles underneath him. “Why,” he asks, trying to keep his balance, “is it pink?” The chair is winning, though, and he slumps sideways, letting it do what it chooses with his mass. Dimly, he hears the crowd around him – and since when is there a crowd? – talking about the fruit wine that MEJ-976 makes, and how it must be hitting McKay harder than he thought, and please, sir, take another picture, no, I won’t do anything inappropriate with it, I swear.
It comes to him, then, and he stands up, because this is important. The ground dips and weaves under him, but that’s fine, that’s only to be expected, and John catches him, anyway. He leans up, looks John in the eye, and says, over the laughter he can hear but is choosing to ignore, that he’s made a great discovery. John, of course, asks what it is, and Rodney, of course, tells him. That’s the way they work, although normally they aren’t leaning on each other. Still, that puts him close enough to poke John’s chest, and he does, on each word, for emphasis.
“I. Am. Completely. And. Ut-ter-ly (which gets three taps, one per syllable). Drunk.”
Then John’s nodding, and the world is spinning, and Rodney is floating, warm and safe and suddenly, deliriously happy. He’s in the City of the Ancients, and they’re alive, and they’re safe, and he has work he loves, and friends he loves, and a home. He’s really, really drunk. Life, Rodney thinks, is good.
When he wakes up the next morning, there’s a t-shirt on the pillow next to him and a glass of water on his night table. The shirt is bright pink, and says, in yellow lettering, I’m not BOSSY… He flips it over, and reads: …I just have better IDEAS.
He smiles, and it stays.
I'm actually rather proud of myself: not only am I actually writing something, I'm writing all of it, and not giving up after a page or so of merblewerble. Also, interestingly, each part of this has been about twice as long as the part before. Also-also, each part has been posted earlier than the one before. Life is winning, but I'm catching up!
Also, I've a question: does there need to be more? it feels like it might be done, but then there's getting Rodney to actually wear the shirt. I think it happens for the first time after a mission, when his uniforms are all slimed and there's something good in the mess and he just doesn't have time for this. Anyone got a POV suggestion? I don't really want to do Rodney again, just yet...I was thinking possibly Ronon? Let me know.