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stargateficrecShow: SGA
Rec Category: Sheppard/McKay
Characters:: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Het/Slash/Gen: Slash
Warnings: None
Author on LJ: None
Author's Website:
Link: One Leg at a Time
Why This Must Be Read:
This is a hilarious crack!fic about Rodney and his pants, or rather, how the lack of them during a crisis challenges John's assumptions about him. John has to deal with Rodney's teasing and Heightmeyer's prodding and his own jealousy while he works out whether Rodney minus pants is a good thing or not.
Excerpt:
Despite the gravity of the situation, all action in the control room ceases when Rodney crosses the threshold. The terror in the room is even more palpable than it was a moment ago. "Well?" he demands. "What did you do?"
Nobody speaks, which can only lead to further Rodney-related heartbreak. But John's armed, so he decides to pitch in. "I don't think they did anything, McKay."
Rodney rounds on him. "How could you possibly know that? I don't care what they told you at DeVry, Colonel: logging seven hundred and fifty hours playing Minesweeper doesn't make you an IT professional, much less an engineer who understands the Lantean system well enough to fuck it up, never mind fix it, and what the hell are you staring at?"
Well.
Now that he's had a second to think about it, John is staring at Rodney.
He's barefoot--strange enough--but all he's wearing is a pair of light blue cotton boxer shorts and a black t-shirt celebrating some band called Prism.
It's two o'clock in the afternoon, for fuck's sake.
"Where were you?" John asks him. It comes out a lot more plaintive than he'd have liked.
"In my quarters, reading Ayn Rand," says Rodney, looking baffled. "You know Angelina Jolie's going to star in Atlas Shrugged?"
John just shakes his head and waves vaguely at the control panels. "Are we all gonna die or not?"
But John still has that look on his face, somewhere between shock and horror--he can feel it--and for the moment at least, this is more meaningful to Rodney than the sound of Sergeant Anderson's moist version of "I Never Sang For My Father."
Rodney stays exactly where he is, chin tilted upward, eyes narrowed, and says "What?" again, making it clear that he will let at least ten people die before he gives up on this, and even then he won't give up on it forever.
John doesn't mean to look him up and down, but he can't help it. Rodney's wearing something else: a boner. There it is, tenting his boxers, plain as day, and John hates himself for not noticing it immediately, because now he has no way of knowing whether Rodney was already packing wood when he showed up or it's his natural reaction to life-threatening disaster.
"Oh, of course," says Rodney, rolling his eyes. "Never mind the imminent threat of horrible, prolonged, gory death--Dr. McKay's not wearing pants!"
John sighs. "McKay..."
"Just out of curiosity, Colonel, how did you learn this critical rule of societal interaction? The Emily Post Worst-Case Scenario Survival Guide?"
"Well," John stalls. Then it comes to him. "What if there was an invasion?" he says triumphantly, pointing at Rodney. "You can't defend the city with no pants on."
Rodney parks his hands on his hips and gapes at John. "Why the hell not?"
"Because," he says, and forces himself not to add It's embarrassing.
Rodney hears it anyway.
"Oh my god," he says, wide-eyed. "You're one of those people who sleep in their clothes in case there's a fire in their building. Who don't use dressing rooms because they're paranoid about security cameras. Who wear their swimming trunks under their clothes when they go to the beach!"
"McKay..."
It's useless. He's got Rodney started. Rodney's grinning, God help them all.
"Go ahead and storm the city," he says gleefully. "Rape and plunder to your heart's content, burn it down and salt the ocean, use my toothbrush and sell me into slavery, but for the love of God, let me put my pants on first."
...
Rec Category: Sheppard/McKay
Characters:: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Het/Slash/Gen: Slash
Warnings: None
Author on LJ: None
Author's Website:
Link: One Leg at a Time
Why This Must Be Read:
This is a hilarious crack!fic about Rodney and his pants, or rather, how the lack of them during a crisis challenges John's assumptions about him. John has to deal with Rodney's teasing and Heightmeyer's prodding and his own jealousy while he works out whether Rodney minus pants is a good thing or not.
Excerpt:
Despite the gravity of the situation, all action in the control room ceases when Rodney crosses the threshold. The terror in the room is even more palpable than it was a moment ago. "Well?" he demands. "What did you do?"
Nobody speaks, which can only lead to further Rodney-related heartbreak. But John's armed, so he decides to pitch in. "I don't think they did anything, McKay."
Rodney rounds on him. "How could you possibly know that? I don't care what they told you at DeVry, Colonel: logging seven hundred and fifty hours playing Minesweeper doesn't make you an IT professional, much less an engineer who understands the Lantean system well enough to fuck it up, never mind fix it, and what the hell are you staring at?"
Well.
Now that he's had a second to think about it, John is staring at Rodney.
He's barefoot--strange enough--but all he's wearing is a pair of light blue cotton boxer shorts and a black t-shirt celebrating some band called Prism.
It's two o'clock in the afternoon, for fuck's sake.
"Where were you?" John asks him. It comes out a lot more plaintive than he'd have liked.
"In my quarters, reading Ayn Rand," says Rodney, looking baffled. "You know Angelina Jolie's going to star in Atlas Shrugged?"
John just shakes his head and waves vaguely at the control panels. "Are we all gonna die or not?"
But John still has that look on his face, somewhere between shock and horror--he can feel it--and for the moment at least, this is more meaningful to Rodney than the sound of Sergeant Anderson's moist version of "I Never Sang For My Father."
Rodney stays exactly where he is, chin tilted upward, eyes narrowed, and says "What?" again, making it clear that he will let at least ten people die before he gives up on this, and even then he won't give up on it forever.
John doesn't mean to look him up and down, but he can't help it. Rodney's wearing something else: a boner. There it is, tenting his boxers, plain as day, and John hates himself for not noticing it immediately, because now he has no way of knowing whether Rodney was already packing wood when he showed up or it's his natural reaction to life-threatening disaster.
"Oh, of course," says Rodney, rolling his eyes. "Never mind the imminent threat of horrible, prolonged, gory death--Dr. McKay's not wearing pants!"
John sighs. "McKay..."
"Just out of curiosity, Colonel, how did you learn this critical rule of societal interaction? The Emily Post Worst-Case Scenario Survival Guide?"
"Well," John stalls. Then it comes to him. "What if there was an invasion?" he says triumphantly, pointing at Rodney. "You can't defend the city with no pants on."
Rodney parks his hands on his hips and gapes at John. "Why the hell not?"
"Because," he says, and forces himself not to add It's embarrassing.
Rodney hears it anyway.
"Oh my god," he says, wide-eyed. "You're one of those people who sleep in their clothes in case there's a fire in their building. Who don't use dressing rooms because they're paranoid about security cameras. Who wear their swimming trunks under their clothes when they go to the beach!"
"McKay..."
It's useless. He's got Rodney started. Rodney's grinning, God help them all.
"Go ahead and storm the city," he says gleefully. "Rape and plunder to your heart's content, burn it down and salt the ocean, use my toothbrush and sell me into slavery, but for the love of God, let me put my pants on first."
...
