So. McKay with his enormous
And Sheppard, with his pretty, pretty
Yeah. Let's look at that.
Absolutely Cuckoo by zoetrope
Can I just say that I was very impressed with your endorsement of multiple Kirks and Spocks in the last poll? I'm afraid there isn't as much choice this time, but what it lacks in quantity, it makes up for in sheer awesomeness. :)
Instead of reccing, today I have flashficced. I suspect it is ordinary, as it's been so long since I've written this pairing, but I did enjoy revisiting. And that's what this fest is all about, so I'm good with that. ;)
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Summary: Rodney's reputation precedes him.
In Pegasus it hadn't even seemed extraordinary: Rodney's so used to being half of Sheppard'n'McKay, and all that means -- feared, coveted, loathed, but above all, known -- their reputations reaching out far ahead of their own footfalls, that he just expects it, plans for it even. He's so used to the way even peasants who wouldn't know the alphabet if they tripped on it, want to kidnap his brain, because they have a gut-deep understanding of the value of working sewers and irrigation and mass transit vehicles that don't need to graze, and weapons, always weapons. He's used to becoming the centre-point of his team the moment they step offworld; always watched over; always needed.
He's so used to it that it just is, business as usual; he barely even notices it any more.
And now, here on Earth where he should belong, he's never felt more out-of-place. Suddenly, Rodney's "That Asshole McKay" again, a label that fits about as well as a cheap, outgrown suit; and Sheppard might as well be a red-shirt for all the respect he's shown by Rodney's supposed peers. The stupid bastards don't even know enough to be scared of him; they flick their eyes over the uniform, the hair, the holstered gun, and they sneer, like Sheppard's a fake -- if they bother to react at all.
But it's Gallagher (still a second-rate hack, and still wearing a scraggly blond pony-tail combed over a much expanded bald spot) who really brings it home, when he looks at Sheppard and rolls his eyes.
"I see you finally got your very own G.I. Joe, McKay," he sneers. "What'd you do? Build a better bomb? Or order him out of a catalogue?"
It's been so long since anyone's blanked Sheppard for real, that Rodney freaks out and misses his chance to give Gallagher the smackdown he so richly deserves. Part of his head is saying, "Can't this asshole see that we're Sheppard and McKay?" The rest of him is too busy feeling stripped bare, as though an invisible forcefield he hadn't even known was there has just popped, leaving him without any protection at all. (Seriously: how can anyone look at Sheppard and think he's a prostitute? A slutty McSlut, okay, yes, but a prostitute with gun calluses? Please. And Gallagher calls himself a scientist!)
Rodney takes an involuntary step back; Sheppard immediately mirrors him with a step forward, hand hovering over his sidearm, even though Gallagher is already zipping off towards his next target, and the only remaining threat is a miasma of body odour seeping out from the main conference room. (Day one was manageable; day two, bad; but day three is like breathing rancid soup. Rodney had forgotten the particular funk of unwashed science nerds doing too much partying and not enough showering; it's nothing like back home, when extreme body odour is always undercut with the desperate reek of adrenalin, and usually also blood).
"Your buddies are real charmers," Sheppard mutters, low enough that it's just for Rodney. "They actually make you look good by comparison, McKay. Who knew?"
"They're not my buddies." Rodney glares at him. "And there is no comparison. You might as well say I look good compared to amoeba or fleas. The only way these morons would have even half my brains is if they turned into zombies and ate them."
"Great. Now you've jinxed us," Sheppard says, looking around as though expecting the undead to crash through the walls at any moment. "I didn't sign on for a zombie apocalypse."
Two men and a woman wander past, all wearing identical t-shirts that read: Actually, I Am a Rocket Scientist!
Rodney shudders; God, he used to be just like that. "I think I'd prefer a zombie apocalypse to this."
"Point," Sheppard concedes, still scarred from The Incident in the stairwell yesterday with the three biophysicists (Rodney has always known his distrust of the biological sciences was well-founded, and now he has more proof than he ever wanted). "I'm beginning to think you lured me here under false pretenses, McKay. You promised me room service and all the football I could watch."
"I did, didn't I." Of course, it hasn't escaped Rodney's notice that there is one really big advantage to the anonymity of Earth: no-one will notice or care if he isn't present at the conference's afternoon sessions. He raises his eyebrows at Sheppard. "Blow job?"
"Read my mind," Sheppard replies with a smirk, just as he always does, half an eye still scanning for possible zombie incursions even as he follows Rodney into the lift.
This entry was originally posted at http://cupidsbow.dreamwidth.org/358898.html.