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Entry tags:
- ds,
- fic!,
- memesheep,
- sga,
- supernatural
mini-fic!
So I finally finished off that drabble-only-not-really-because-I-don't-like-wordcounts meme, and figured I'd post the results here, more for my own reference than for anything else. Six of them, in all three of my fandoms. Woohoo! *dances around*
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shoemaster:
He was tied to a tree, which pretty much assured the mission a place in Rodney McKay’s Top Ten Worst Missions of All Time. Next to him, Sheppard was tied to his own tree, which was probably better than having him tied to the same tree, or a tree somewhere out of sight.
“Baseball?”
“Shut up.” Probably, but not definitely.
“No, seriously, McKay: you played baseball?” Rodney spun around and glared at him, and Sheppard sat back against his tree, chuckling. “Baseball,” he muttered, and Rodney clenched his hands. There's no sense in killing the military commander of Atlantis, he reminded himself, Elizabeth will get pissed at you. Calm, dignified silence: that was the way to go. Show him that Rodney McKay is above such petty mockery. Eyes forward, deep breaths. Calm, dignified silence.
That lasted for all of 46 seconds: Sheppard snickered again, and Rodney turned back around. Sheppard was leaning back, somehow managing to slouch around the ropes strapping him to his tree, stretching his legs out and laughing outright, his face scrunched-up and stupid with amusement.
“Just—just wondering what you remembered about the bases, McKay,” Sheppard choked out.
No question about it: Top Ten material, definitely.
***
Forpearl_o:
Some days, Ray loves his job, but today? Is not so much that day.
They’ve got a guest lecturer, which is cool, except for how they don’t actually have a guest lecturer yet, and class is supposed to start in three minutes.
Nothing to worry about, Vecchio told him, Fraser’s great. Which is easy for Vecchio to say—he’s at a conference in Boston, and anyway he’s got tenure. Ray, though, is stuck, because if this Fraser guy doesn’t show, then Ray has to talk for an hour and a half about fucking historical sound change, of all things. Already, he knows he’s going to mix up syncope and apocope and—aw, crap, what’s the other one?
So Benton Fraser may be a great guy, but if he doesn’t show up, Ray Kowalski is entirely prepared to hate him forever.
The clock ticks over—one-thirty, showtime!—and Ray heads up to the lectern. The undergrads are pretty much all there: the obnoxious Japanese anime freaks, the confused and abstracted classics majors, the Slavic Studies kids with their cryptic glances. He shuffles through his notes from when he took historical linguistics, wonders briefly whether that stain is beer or coffee, and then—
Ray falls to the floor, fighting off the half a ton of shaggy white dog sitting on his chest. The class is laughing and Ray’s got wet sloppy tongue in his ear, and then suddenly he’s being lifted up by strong hands on his shoulders. He gets a quick impression of blue eyes and dark, neat hair, and then his rescuer is bending over to talk to the dog, and all Ray can see is one of the nicest asses God ever gave a visiting professor.
“Dief!” the guy says, and then follows it with a jumble of syllables that Ray can’t parse. It works, though: the dog drops its tail and goes to curl beside the lectern, and then Ray is face-to-face with Benton Fraser once more.
“I’m sorry about that,” Fraser says, “he doesn’t always listen, and Chicago is quite exciting for both of us. You must be Ray Kowalski!” And, yeah, that’s him, so he shakes Fraser’s hand and manages to get out a few words of introduction before collapsing back in his usual seat, front row on the left.
Maybe historical sound change won’t be so bad, this time around.
***
Foraurora_84:
John's seen a lot of impressive things in his life. Not that he's bragging—it's just that he lives, as they say, in interesting times.
He's seen the sun rise over seven different continents, and done it enough to have distinct favorites. Antarctica is the best, of course, but Africa's a close second, and he likes Australia okay. He's seen a nuclear blast, and he's seen a man eat twenty foot-long hot dogs in seven and a half minutes, and he's still not entirely sure which was worse. He'd seen men die, and seen how much harder it was to live, sometimes.
And that was just Earth. Since the wormhole (the first one, the only one that matters; see one, you've seen them all), he's seen spaceships and forcefields and more ray guns than he has any right to. He's seen a planet with dozens of glittering moons and a planet with only one, glowing dull and fat on the horizon. He's seen jungles and volcanoes, oceans and deserts and a thousand other things, all of them amazing and incredible and fucking unbelievable.
He's never seen a librarian shout at someone before, but it's looking more and more likely: the lending library in Colorado Springs doesn't have anything that's up to McKay's exacting standards, and the woman behind the desk is looking less and less "Welcome to the library, how can I help you?" and more and more "Yes, I can kill you with my mind: ask for a demonstration!"
It promises to be interesting, but instead of sitting and watching, he grabs McKay's arm, pulling him away from the desk and grinning apologetically at Miss Katherine Green, Senior Librarian.
"I've got some books back in my storage locker, McKay," he says, and then he's got McKay's attention: sceptical, but willing to be convinced. "Douglas Adams," John offers, pulling out his best smile, the one he saves for special occasions.
"Right, because I don't have enough wacky space hijinks in my real life," McKay snaps, but he lets John steer him back toward the rental car.
And in a lot of ways, that's the most impressive thing John's ever seen.
***
Forjustbreathe80:
It wound up working out like this: Ray went on down to Chicago, on account of how he:
a) had a job there (that he hadn't done in close to three months, except for the liasing-with-Canada part),
b) had an apartment there (except for how Frannie was taking care of it for him and basically living there, away from her family, and god, he hoped she wasn't fucking anyone on his bed), and
c) had all his friends there (except for how his social circle had pretty much been Fraser, Fraser, and Fraser for the last year and a half—there would be an exception for Vecchio, but Ray didn't want to make an exception for Vecchio, and so there wasn't).
Fraser, for his part, stayed in Canada for a month more, because he was Canadian ("Come on, Fraser! You think you can't be just as Canadian in Chicago? Hell, you can be more Canadian there—you can get a fucking monopoly on Candianness—Canadiana—Canadianosity—"), and also because some of the bigwigs wanted to talk to him about his job.
So Ray went back to Chicago, and found himself a new apartment. He moved all of his stuff over (Frannie helped, but then she also stole his favorite pillow and broke three plates, which made it totally OK for Ray to not buy her beer and pizza after), and every night he called Fraser, to talk about how things were going (the guy across the hall still smelled like cat food, but the couple downstairs cooked some fucking fantastic curry, and they'd given Ray some of the leftovers when he helped them change a tire; the girl upstairs had great taste in music and lots of sex—Fraser wanted to know if the two were connected; Ray missed Fraser; Fraser missed Ray).
And then, after a while, Ray opened his door in the morning and found Fraser with one hand up, just ready to knock.
"You're not the newspaper," he said, rubbing one hand through his hair (a little longer than usual, and not bleached; some of the guys at the station gave him shit for it, but it had gotten long up in Canada, and he'd gotten used to it), and then he'd grabbed Fraser by the collar of his shirt (a real shirt, thank god, so much easier to take off) and hauled him into the apartment.
(and then they had sex)
***
Forrike_tikki_tavi:
Rodney's really got to hand it to the Pegasus Galaxy: it's got some pretty impressive timing.
It's not regular, of course—that would be too easy, too predictable. If they got a new crisis every two weeks, they'd probably get lazy and sloppy, and then they'd get dead, and that would suck. It's more of a Jaws thing, really: just when they think it's safe to go back through the Stargate, something else goes completely to shit, usually in new and exciting ways.
For example: Rodney spends a week in the infirmary, after his stint as the Amazing Underwater McKay, seven whole days of carefully monitored body temperature and sleeping round-the-clock, whining for blue jello in the fifteen-minute stretches he spends awake. The first mission—to a planet with no bodies of water larger than a swimming pool—Rodney stares at the gate with his face gone suddenly slack, bathed in blue light. John doesn't say anything, and neither do Teyla and Ronon, but they keep him to the center of the group, and don't stop watching him. He considers complaining, but is mostly just pathetically grateful.
The mission went fine, though—pretty planet, nice weather, friendly natives—and the one after it was the same. He'd even managed to joke about it, during the debriefing: "What, you don't think I'm up to it?" Sheppard had smiled, and patted his shoulder, and told him not to worry about it, he was doing fine.
So naturally, on their third mission out, he's laughing and joking, teasing Ronon for his ridiculous and completely unsubtle crush on one of the linguists, when the ground falls out from under him, sending him hurtling down into blackness.
It didn't even make a noise, he thinks, staring up at the tiny circle of sky above him. It strikes him as vaguely unfair, as do the bruises he can feel forming on his back, and the blood that's drying on his shirt.
Then he's unconscious, and it's not bothering him any more.
***
Forkbk:
"Dean, no."
"Come on, Sammy—"
"Dean, seriously, let it go." Sam tightened his grip on Dean's arm and pulled him out of the doorway, out of the way of the family that was trying to leave. They both smiled, but only the little girl smiled back; her brothers were asleep, her mother was carrying them, and her father was busy giving Sam and Dean the stinkeye.
Once they were past, Sam turned back to Dean, getting ready to have the argument again. Dean had relaxed, though, and was leaning against the brick wall, frowning.
Sam sighed. "Dean, why does this have to be such a big deal? This place is convenient, and since somebody got us kicked out of the diner—"
"Dude, he deserved it!"
"—he wasn't even looking at us, Dean!" Dean shrugged, like it was all the same thing, and who knew? Maybe it was, for him. Jesus. "Dean, we need to watch the house, and we need to do some laundry, so will you stop being such a —" Across the street, the lights blazed on, and Sam snapped open the trunk, tossing weapons over to Dean, trying to ignore the screaming.
"Laundry later, Sammy," Dean shouted as they charged up the driveway. "Somewhere that's not going to make my stuff smell like a fucking ashtray!"
***
Wooohoooo! ...and now, back to the mines with me. grr argh.
For
shoemaster: He was tied to a tree, which pretty much assured the mission a place in Rodney McKay’s Top Ten Worst Missions of All Time. Next to him, Sheppard was tied to his own tree, which was probably better than having him tied to the same tree, or a tree somewhere out of sight.
“Baseball?”
“Shut up.” Probably, but not definitely.
“No, seriously, McKay: you played baseball?” Rodney spun around and glared at him, and Sheppard sat back against his tree, chuckling. “Baseball,” he muttered, and Rodney clenched his hands. There's no sense in killing the military commander of Atlantis, he reminded himself, Elizabeth will get pissed at you. Calm, dignified silence: that was the way to go. Show him that Rodney McKay is above such petty mockery. Eyes forward, deep breaths. Calm, dignified silence.
That lasted for all of 46 seconds: Sheppard snickered again, and Rodney turned back around. Sheppard was leaning back, somehow managing to slouch around the ropes strapping him to his tree, stretching his legs out and laughing outright, his face scrunched-up and stupid with amusement.
“Just—just wondering what you remembered about the bases, McKay,” Sheppard choked out.
No question about it: Top Ten material, definitely.
***
For
pearl_o: Some days, Ray loves his job, but today? Is not so much that day.
They’ve got a guest lecturer, which is cool, except for how they don’t actually have a guest lecturer yet, and class is supposed to start in three minutes.
Nothing to worry about, Vecchio told him, Fraser’s great. Which is easy for Vecchio to say—he’s at a conference in Boston, and anyway he’s got tenure. Ray, though, is stuck, because if this Fraser guy doesn’t show, then Ray has to talk for an hour and a half about fucking historical sound change, of all things. Already, he knows he’s going to mix up syncope and apocope and—aw, crap, what’s the other one?
So Benton Fraser may be a great guy, but if he doesn’t show up, Ray Kowalski is entirely prepared to hate him forever.
The clock ticks over—one-thirty, showtime!—and Ray heads up to the lectern. The undergrads are pretty much all there: the obnoxious Japanese anime freaks, the confused and abstracted classics majors, the Slavic Studies kids with their cryptic glances. He shuffles through his notes from when he took historical linguistics, wonders briefly whether that stain is beer or coffee, and then—
Ray falls to the floor, fighting off the half a ton of shaggy white dog sitting on his chest. The class is laughing and Ray’s got wet sloppy tongue in his ear, and then suddenly he’s being lifted up by strong hands on his shoulders. He gets a quick impression of blue eyes and dark, neat hair, and then his rescuer is bending over to talk to the dog, and all Ray can see is one of the nicest asses God ever gave a visiting professor.
“Dief!” the guy says, and then follows it with a jumble of syllables that Ray can’t parse. It works, though: the dog drops its tail and goes to curl beside the lectern, and then Ray is face-to-face with Benton Fraser once more.
“I’m sorry about that,” Fraser says, “he doesn’t always listen, and Chicago is quite exciting for both of us. You must be Ray Kowalski!” And, yeah, that’s him, so he shakes Fraser’s hand and manages to get out a few words of introduction before collapsing back in his usual seat, front row on the left.
Maybe historical sound change won’t be so bad, this time around.
***
For
aurora_84: John's seen a lot of impressive things in his life. Not that he's bragging—it's just that he lives, as they say, in interesting times.
He's seen the sun rise over seven different continents, and done it enough to have distinct favorites. Antarctica is the best, of course, but Africa's a close second, and he likes Australia okay. He's seen a nuclear blast, and he's seen a man eat twenty foot-long hot dogs in seven and a half minutes, and he's still not entirely sure which was worse. He'd seen men die, and seen how much harder it was to live, sometimes.
And that was just Earth. Since the wormhole (the first one, the only one that matters; see one, you've seen them all), he's seen spaceships and forcefields and more ray guns than he has any right to. He's seen a planet with dozens of glittering moons and a planet with only one, glowing dull and fat on the horizon. He's seen jungles and volcanoes, oceans and deserts and a thousand other things, all of them amazing and incredible and fucking unbelievable.
He's never seen a librarian shout at someone before, but it's looking more and more likely: the lending library in Colorado Springs doesn't have anything that's up to McKay's exacting standards, and the woman behind the desk is looking less and less "Welcome to the library, how can I help you?" and more and more "Yes, I can kill you with my mind: ask for a demonstration!"
It promises to be interesting, but instead of sitting and watching, he grabs McKay's arm, pulling him away from the desk and grinning apologetically at Miss Katherine Green, Senior Librarian.
"I've got some books back in my storage locker, McKay," he says, and then he's got McKay's attention: sceptical, but willing to be convinced. "Douglas Adams," John offers, pulling out his best smile, the one he saves for special occasions.
"Right, because I don't have enough wacky space hijinks in my real life," McKay snaps, but he lets John steer him back toward the rental car.
And in a lot of ways, that's the most impressive thing John's ever seen.
***
For
justbreathe80: It wound up working out like this: Ray went on down to Chicago, on account of how he:
a) had a job there (that he hadn't done in close to three months, except for the liasing-with-Canada part),
b) had an apartment there (except for how Frannie was taking care of it for him and basically living there, away from her family, and god, he hoped she wasn't fucking anyone on his bed), and
c) had all his friends there (except for how his social circle had pretty much been Fraser, Fraser, and Fraser for the last year and a half—there would be an exception for Vecchio, but Ray didn't want to make an exception for Vecchio, and so there wasn't).
Fraser, for his part, stayed in Canada for a month more, because he was Canadian ("Come on, Fraser! You think you can't be just as Canadian in Chicago? Hell, you can be more Canadian there—you can get a fucking monopoly on Candianness—Canadiana—Canadianosity—"), and also because some of the bigwigs wanted to talk to him about his job.
So Ray went back to Chicago, and found himself a new apartment. He moved all of his stuff over (Frannie helped, but then she also stole his favorite pillow and broke three plates, which made it totally OK for Ray to not buy her beer and pizza after), and every night he called Fraser, to talk about how things were going (the guy across the hall still smelled like cat food, but the couple downstairs cooked some fucking fantastic curry, and they'd given Ray some of the leftovers when he helped them change a tire; the girl upstairs had great taste in music and lots of sex—Fraser wanted to know if the two were connected; Ray missed Fraser; Fraser missed Ray).
And then, after a while, Ray opened his door in the morning and found Fraser with one hand up, just ready to knock.
"You're not the newspaper," he said, rubbing one hand through his hair (a little longer than usual, and not bleached; some of the guys at the station gave him shit for it, but it had gotten long up in Canada, and he'd gotten used to it), and then he'd grabbed Fraser by the collar of his shirt (a real shirt, thank god, so much easier to take off) and hauled him into the apartment.
(and then they had sex)
***
For
rike_tikki_tavi: Rodney's really got to hand it to the Pegasus Galaxy: it's got some pretty impressive timing.
It's not regular, of course—that would be too easy, too predictable. If they got a new crisis every two weeks, they'd probably get lazy and sloppy, and then they'd get dead, and that would suck. It's more of a Jaws thing, really: just when they think it's safe to go back through the Stargate, something else goes completely to shit, usually in new and exciting ways.
For example: Rodney spends a week in the infirmary, after his stint as the Amazing Underwater McKay, seven whole days of carefully monitored body temperature and sleeping round-the-clock, whining for blue jello in the fifteen-minute stretches he spends awake. The first mission—to a planet with no bodies of water larger than a swimming pool—Rodney stares at the gate with his face gone suddenly slack, bathed in blue light. John doesn't say anything, and neither do Teyla and Ronon, but they keep him to the center of the group, and don't stop watching him. He considers complaining, but is mostly just pathetically grateful.
The mission went fine, though—pretty planet, nice weather, friendly natives—and the one after it was the same. He'd even managed to joke about it, during the debriefing: "What, you don't think I'm up to it?" Sheppard had smiled, and patted his shoulder, and told him not to worry about it, he was doing fine.
So naturally, on their third mission out, he's laughing and joking, teasing Ronon for his ridiculous and completely unsubtle crush on one of the linguists, when the ground falls out from under him, sending him hurtling down into blackness.
It didn't even make a noise, he thinks, staring up at the tiny circle of sky above him. It strikes him as vaguely unfair, as do the bruises he can feel forming on his back, and the blood that's drying on his shirt.
Then he's unconscious, and it's not bothering him any more.
***
For
kbk: "Dean, no."
"Come on, Sammy—"
"Dean, seriously, let it go." Sam tightened his grip on Dean's arm and pulled him out of the doorway, out of the way of the family that was trying to leave. They both smiled, but only the little girl smiled back; her brothers were asleep, her mother was carrying them, and her father was busy giving Sam and Dean the stinkeye.
Once they were past, Sam turned back to Dean, getting ready to have the argument again. Dean had relaxed, though, and was leaning against the brick wall, frowning.
Sam sighed. "Dean, why does this have to be such a big deal? This place is convenient, and since somebody got us kicked out of the diner—"
"Dude, he deserved it!"
"—he wasn't even looking at us, Dean!" Dean shrugged, like it was all the same thing, and who knew? Maybe it was, for him. Jesus. "Dean, we need to watch the house, and we need to do some laundry, so will you stop being such a —" Across the street, the lights blazed on, and Sam snapped open the trunk, tossing weapons over to Dean, trying to ignore the screaming.
"Laundry later, Sammy," Dean shouted as they charged up the driveway. "Somewhere that's not going to make my stuff smell like a fucking ashtray!"
***
Wooohoooo! ...and now, back to the mines with me. grr argh.