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Something new...
I would be very interested to know why it is that I can't ever write the stories I want to write.
Lacking an answer to that question, here's the first part of something new.
After they'd found the second ZPM, one of the things McKay had done, in between all the jumping for joy and talking a mile a minute, was set up a way for everyone to access their email. John wasn't real clear on the particulars - McKay had tried to explain it to him, once, while Teyla was busy making nice with yet another agrarian civilazation and Ronon was sharpening his knives, but then things had started exploding, and the explanation had never really been resumed. He knew that all security regs still held - which was kind of obvious, but apparently not so obvious that there didn't need to be a citywide meeting to explain to everyone that, no, you couldn't tell anyone where you were or what you were doing, no, not even through email.
He also knew that the email came in and went out with the daily databurst from SGC, and that if you wanted something sent, you had to queue it to do so by at least 900. He didn't send much email, and what he got was mostly junk, but if you were bored, there were worse things to do than to be in the labs when the mail came in. After the first week or so, McKay had made everyone else turn off the 'you have new mail' sounds on their machines, and it was just a measure of how annoying those noises were - or maybe of how glad everyone was to get email again - that nobody complained. They all just sat around, working, with one eye on the clock and one ear on McKay's computer. When at last it dinged, everyone would scurry to their computers, dig into their email progams - and then the real fun would start.
Most of the shouting came from McKay, but not nearly all - Dr Kusanagi, apparently, had an ongoing feud with someone in Chicago, and her voice carried a lot better than Rodney's did. McKay, for his part, did a lot of smug chuckling, occasionaly calling out choice bits of things people said to him for the others to laugh at, which they did, although John never quite got the joke. A lot of them seemed to be on the same mailing lists, too, which meant that they'd be calling back and forth across the lab to each other, asking did you see this? and did you read that? and seriously, is Harrison insane?
And then, after a month or so, someone's sister had a baby, which prompted a slew of emails with embarassing baby photos attached. Most of them wound up being printed out surreptitiously and then tacked on the whiteboard. McKay complained bitterly, calling it unprofessional, but the photos stayed up, especially the one of him, age 3, with chocolate cake on his elbows and in his hair. It was a cute picture.
There were the occasional bad emails, too - someone had a miscarriage, someone got a divorce, someone died. John kept up on it, quietly - the days when he wasn't in the labs for mail call, he asked Rodney if there had been anything interesting, and Rodney told him the news between briefings and mission prep. It was all stuff worth knowing, to keep an eye on his people, to know who was having a bad time of it, or who might need to go back home in a hurry. Not a fun job, but one that needed doing, and one he actually was better at than Elizabeth was - if she tried to keep tabs on people that way, they got nervous. If McKay told him, though, people just assumed it was because Rodney never shut up. He told Elizabeth, too, of course, but it was easier for everyone if they all pretended that Dr Weir didn't have a spy network.
Mostly, though, it was all good fun, with the occasional chance to embarass someone horribly, which was the way John liked things.
The day they were supposed to go to PY-916, John stopped in for mail call, hoping to see if Zelenka had gotten a response to his suggestion that someone retire and raise goats in Mongolia, since that was clearly all he was good for, and at least there, he'd be out of the way. He hadn't, though, so John just leaned on the edge of McKay's lab table, watching his face contort as he went from smug superiority to rage to baffled amusement to disgust to annoyance as he paged through his email. He was perched on a stool, one hand wrapped absently around his enormous coffee mug, the other tapping away on the keyboard, muttering under his breath about this idiot and that idea, when suddenly it all stopped. McKay groaned, took a swig of coffee, and dropped his head into his hands.
"McKay?" John came around the table, trying to see what was up. As far as he knew, McKay wasn't particularly close with any of his family, but that didn't mean there hadn't been some crisis. McKay didn't raise his head when John put a hand on his shoulder, just waved him off, pointing in the general direction of the computer screen.
Rodney, the message read, I'm having Thanksgiving dinner this year. You will be there. If necessary, I will contact your superiors and inform them of Uncle Reginald's sad, sad demise, but I'd really rather not have to do that, so do be sure to be home by the beginning of October. Bring whoever you like, so long as they're housetrained. Love, Jeannie
John patted McKay's shoulder, but it didn't particularly seem to help.
Seriously - if anyone happens to know where my brain is? Or why I can't seem to write the story I'd really like to write?
Lacking an answer to that question, here's the first part of something new.
After they'd found the second ZPM, one of the things McKay had done, in between all the jumping for joy and talking a mile a minute, was set up a way for everyone to access their email. John wasn't real clear on the particulars - McKay had tried to explain it to him, once, while Teyla was busy making nice with yet another agrarian civilazation and Ronon was sharpening his knives, but then things had started exploding, and the explanation had never really been resumed. He knew that all security regs still held - which was kind of obvious, but apparently not so obvious that there didn't need to be a citywide meeting to explain to everyone that, no, you couldn't tell anyone where you were or what you were doing, no, not even through email.
He also knew that the email came in and went out with the daily databurst from SGC, and that if you wanted something sent, you had to queue it to do so by at least 900. He didn't send much email, and what he got was mostly junk, but if you were bored, there were worse things to do than to be in the labs when the mail came in. After the first week or so, McKay had made everyone else turn off the 'you have new mail' sounds on their machines, and it was just a measure of how annoying those noises were - or maybe of how glad everyone was to get email again - that nobody complained. They all just sat around, working, with one eye on the clock and one ear on McKay's computer. When at last it dinged, everyone would scurry to their computers, dig into their email progams - and then the real fun would start.
Most of the shouting came from McKay, but not nearly all - Dr Kusanagi, apparently, had an ongoing feud with someone in Chicago, and her voice carried a lot better than Rodney's did. McKay, for his part, did a lot of smug chuckling, occasionaly calling out choice bits of things people said to him for the others to laugh at, which they did, although John never quite got the joke. A lot of them seemed to be on the same mailing lists, too, which meant that they'd be calling back and forth across the lab to each other, asking did you see this? and did you read that? and seriously, is Harrison insane?
And then, after a month or so, someone's sister had a baby, which prompted a slew of emails with embarassing baby photos attached. Most of them wound up being printed out surreptitiously and then tacked on the whiteboard. McKay complained bitterly, calling it unprofessional, but the photos stayed up, especially the one of him, age 3, with chocolate cake on his elbows and in his hair. It was a cute picture.
There were the occasional bad emails, too - someone had a miscarriage, someone got a divorce, someone died. John kept up on it, quietly - the days when he wasn't in the labs for mail call, he asked Rodney if there had been anything interesting, and Rodney told him the news between briefings and mission prep. It was all stuff worth knowing, to keep an eye on his people, to know who was having a bad time of it, or who might need to go back home in a hurry. Not a fun job, but one that needed doing, and one he actually was better at than Elizabeth was - if she tried to keep tabs on people that way, they got nervous. If McKay told him, though, people just assumed it was because Rodney never shut up. He told Elizabeth, too, of course, but it was easier for everyone if they all pretended that Dr Weir didn't have a spy network.
Mostly, though, it was all good fun, with the occasional chance to embarass someone horribly, which was the way John liked things.
The day they were supposed to go to PY-916, John stopped in for mail call, hoping to see if Zelenka had gotten a response to his suggestion that someone retire and raise goats in Mongolia, since that was clearly all he was good for, and at least there, he'd be out of the way. He hadn't, though, so John just leaned on the edge of McKay's lab table, watching his face contort as he went from smug superiority to rage to baffled amusement to disgust to annoyance as he paged through his email. He was perched on a stool, one hand wrapped absently around his enormous coffee mug, the other tapping away on the keyboard, muttering under his breath about this idiot and that idea, when suddenly it all stopped. McKay groaned, took a swig of coffee, and dropped his head into his hands.
"McKay?" John came around the table, trying to see what was up. As far as he knew, McKay wasn't particularly close with any of his family, but that didn't mean there hadn't been some crisis. McKay didn't raise his head when John put a hand on his shoulder, just waved him off, pointing in the general direction of the computer screen.
Rodney, the message read, I'm having Thanksgiving dinner this year. You will be there. If necessary, I will contact your superiors and inform them of Uncle Reginald's sad, sad demise, but I'd really rather not have to do that, so do be sure to be home by the beginning of October. Bring whoever you like, so long as they're housetrained. Love, Jeannie
John patted McKay's shoulder, but it didn't particularly seem to help.
Seriously - if anyone happens to know where my brain is? Or why I can't seem to write the story I'd really like to write?