Ficlet: Cat on a Hot Tin Jumper (SGA, G)
Jul. 28th, 2006 12:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stillaneHere lies the first of the prompt responses. docmichelle asked for John, Rodney, and kitten sneezes. I bow happily to such devious devices.
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: G
docmichelle asked for John, Rodney, and kitten sneezes. I bow happily to such devious devices.Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: G
Cat on a Hot Tin Jumper
It wouldn’t be funny on anyone else.
Okay, it would, but not nearly as funny.
It was just that they were such very quiet sounds for such a very not-quiet guy. The fact that Rodney’d recently had a haircut didn’t help. Every sneeze brought his shoulders up around his ears and scrunched his face around his nose. He looked like a hedgehog.
For obvious reasons, John’s team wasn’t keeping their planned mission schedule. Lorne’s group would be stepping in for their trip to M3X-294, hopefully to trade for a mineral that pretended to be naquadria in most tests, and yet weighed considerably less.
John had been watching Rodney try unsuccessfully to direct his replacement for the past half hour. (The walkways around the gateroom were convenient that way.) John could have been a nice guy and translated, given that long-term exposure had taught him Rodneyspeak.
Nice guys didn’t have nearly this much fun.
It had taken most of a day to figure it out. On M3X-957, Rodney had stubbed his toe while taking readings and grumbled about it accordingly. John had told him it was his own damn fault and to try looking up now and then. They’d just gotten to the entertaining stage of play-insults when the local welcoming committee had dusted them both with the “Powder of Peace”. John had immediately flashed to thoughts of scary hallucinogenics and scarier drug-induced comas. When a minute passed and all they got was sneezing, it seemed like a lucky enough break.
It was when they didn’t stop sneezing that John started worrying again.
Four hours, nine diagnostics, two showers, and one very important conversation with a smiling village elder later, John was back to seeing the humor in it. Apparently, the powder was used to make peace between warring nations and feuding spouses. It keyed in to the recipient’s blood pressure, and induced the sneezing whenever the levels got too high.
Alien anger management training. Carson thought it would wear off in under a week, as soon as the drug worked its way through the bloodstream. John had lain off the morning runs and put the team on standby, and hadn’t sneezed once since the diagnosis. Rodney glared at him. Often.
The angrier Rodney got, the more he sneezed.
He was sneezing a lot, just now.
John snickered as a snarl dissolved into the sound of a kitten with the sniffles. An answering chuckle came from his right. A look showed him Ronon leaning over the balcony a few feet away. That John hadn’t heard him approach was par for the course.
“It’s kinda cute.”
John nodded and grinned maniacally. “I know.”
“Are you gonna tell him it’s cute?”
“Nope.”
“Can I tell him it’s cute?”
“You weren’t here when he built the nuclear bomb.”
Ronon did that rolling shrug which said, eloquently, Huh.
A general shuffling below caught his attention. Rodney had apparently decided they were as educated as they were going to get.
“Gotta go.”
Ronon nodded and gave a half-wave.
John walked at a very careful pace back to his quarters, and beat Rodney there with just enough time to be leaning calmly against his headboard, book in hand. A calculatedly dry look from under a raised eyebrow showed him Rodney stripping his jacket off with sharp, jerking motions. The jacket hit a chair and slid off. Rodney sneezed.
“I hate you. Really. Really a lot.”
John pouted in mock thought. “Hey, not my fault. I’m just more Zen. Teyla’s been teaching me to meditate. You should try it.”
The sound of the Greek alphabet backwards made John hide his head back in the book.
“Besides, it’s almost like a paid vacation.”
This time it was a string of what John was guessing was Russian.
The sudden quiet that fell afterward was mildly unnerving. He didn’t dare look up and blow his cover, though.
The feel of fingers on his boots gave him visions of tripping over knotted shoelaces and finally made him risk it. All he saw was Rodney diligently working at removing John’s shoes. His socks followed, feet cradled gently in competent hands. It felt worryingly good.
“What are you doing?”
Rodney didn’t look up. “I should think that would be patently obvious. As you’ve pointed out, we’ve got several days of unoccupied time to occupy. I can’t think of a better way to do it.”
John couldn’t argue with that. Sometimes, sleeping with a genius came in handy.
Rodney’s hands slipped under John’s pants leg, fingers kneading at his calf with just the right mix of strength and persuasion. John watched as Rodney leaned the rest of the way forward and nipped lightly at the ankle. John's head went back against the pillow as a clever tongue began to trace up his shin.
He got it three seconds too late.
Between sneezes, he could hear Rodney laughing.
It wouldn’t be funny on anyone else.
Okay, it would, but not nearly as funny.
It was just that they were such very quiet sounds for such a very not-quiet guy. The fact that Rodney’d recently had a haircut didn’t help. Every sneeze brought his shoulders up around his ears and scrunched his face around his nose. He looked like a hedgehog.
For obvious reasons, John’s team wasn’t keeping their planned mission schedule. Lorne’s group would be stepping in for their trip to M3X-294, hopefully to trade for a mineral that pretended to be naquadria in most tests, and yet weighed considerably less.
John had been watching Rodney try unsuccessfully to direct his replacement for the past half hour. (The walkways around the gateroom were convenient that way.) John could have been a nice guy and translated, given that long-term exposure had taught him Rodneyspeak.
Nice guys didn’t have nearly this much fun.
It had taken most of a day to figure it out. On M3X-957, Rodney had stubbed his toe while taking readings and grumbled about it accordingly. John had told him it was his own damn fault and to try looking up now and then. They’d just gotten to the entertaining stage of play-insults when the local welcoming committee had dusted them both with the “Powder of Peace”. John had immediately flashed to thoughts of scary hallucinogenics and scarier drug-induced comas. When a minute passed and all they got was sneezing, it seemed like a lucky enough break.
It was when they didn’t stop sneezing that John started worrying again.
Four hours, nine diagnostics, two showers, and one very important conversation with a smiling village elder later, John was back to seeing the humor in it. Apparently, the powder was used to make peace between warring nations and feuding spouses. It keyed in to the recipient’s blood pressure, and induced the sneezing whenever the levels got too high.
Alien anger management training. Carson thought it would wear off in under a week, as soon as the drug worked its way through the bloodstream. John had lain off the morning runs and put the team on standby, and hadn’t sneezed once since the diagnosis. Rodney glared at him. Often.
The angrier Rodney got, the more he sneezed.
He was sneezing a lot, just now.
John snickered as a snarl dissolved into the sound of a kitten with the sniffles. An answering chuckle came from his right. A look showed him Ronon leaning over the balcony a few feet away. That John hadn’t heard him approach was par for the course.
“It’s kinda cute.”
John nodded and grinned maniacally. “I know.”
“Are you gonna tell him it’s cute?”
“Nope.”
“Can I tell him it’s cute?”
“You weren’t here when he built the nuclear bomb.”
Ronon did that rolling shrug which said, eloquently, Huh.
A general shuffling below caught his attention. Rodney had apparently decided they were as educated as they were going to get.
“Gotta go.”
Ronon nodded and gave a half-wave.
John walked at a very careful pace back to his quarters, and beat Rodney there with just enough time to be leaning calmly against his headboard, book in hand. A calculatedly dry look from under a raised eyebrow showed him Rodney stripping his jacket off with sharp, jerking motions. The jacket hit a chair and slid off. Rodney sneezed.
“I hate you. Really. Really a lot.”
John pouted in mock thought. “Hey, not my fault. I’m just more Zen. Teyla’s been teaching me to meditate. You should try it.”
The sound of the Greek alphabet backwards made John hide his head back in the book.
“Besides, it’s almost like a paid vacation.”
This time it was a string of what John was guessing was Russian.
The sudden quiet that fell afterward was mildly unnerving. He didn’t dare look up and blow his cover, though.
The feel of fingers on his boots gave him visions of tripping over knotted shoelaces and finally made him risk it. All he saw was Rodney diligently working at removing John’s shoes. His socks followed, feet cradled gently in competent hands. It felt worryingly good.
“What are you doing?”
Rodney didn’t look up. “I should think that would be patently obvious. As you’ve pointed out, we’ve got several days of unoccupied time to occupy. I can’t think of a better way to do it.”
John couldn’t argue with that. Sometimes, sleeping with a genius came in handy.
Rodney’s hands slipped under John’s pants leg, fingers kneading at his calf with just the right mix of strength and persuasion. John watched as Rodney leaned the rest of the way forward and nipped lightly at the ankle. John's head went back against the pillow as a clever tongue began to trace up his shin.
He got it three seconds too late.
Between sneezes, he could hear Rodney laughing.
