SGA Fic: 1979 (crack; Lorne)
Title: 1979
Fandom: SGA
Words: About 550
Summary: It's all about balance.
Notes: Lyric from Revanche's "1979, It's Dancing Time." (I think). Written for summercon's Bad Manips and the Stories that Love Them Challenge (scroll down to find my inspiration, made by wearmyhat (Lorne and his 'wonderful' shirt) - note that a couple of the manips are NOT worksafe; it's also an image heavy link). I feel shame for this, but hey! how could I resist that manip? I just couldn't.
Warning: Ridiculousness.
It's all about balance, Nick Lorne figures. That's the way to stay sane. Balance a boring meeting with a good workout, balance weapons training with hand-to-hand, and balance a shit mission with some great downtime. The worse the mission, the better the downtime, that's the way it should be.
Getting captured, having his death faked, and spending too long in a cell wearing itchy, non-reg clothing means he deserves some really, really good downtime. The kind of downtime he tries to keep to a minimum, because you don't want to wear that vibe out. Even as he's walking through the 'gate, nodding at Dr. Weir, and assuring Dr. Beckett that he isn't injured, Nick's already thinking about what he wants.
He manages to keep his anticipation hidden, though.
*
"Come on, baby," he says to Atlantis, as soon as he steps into his room. It's fantastic to have the gene, especially on days like this. "You know what I'm looking for." He pats the wall as he talks. The city, he's convinced, likes to be treated right.
Already, the lights are dimming, and the door has locked firmly behind him. He takes off his earpiece and tosses it on the bed. "You want to clear this place out?" he asks, and Atlantis obliges, hiding the desk, the chairs, the bed, leaving behind a clear, empty space, subtle patterns already flickering along the floor.
Watching them, he can already feel himself starting to relax, the knots working themselves out of his shoulders.
Reluctantly, he leaves the room, takes a quick shower, and when he comes back, the ceiling has been transformed into tiny, flickering mirrors. Excellent.
He goes to the closet, pulls out his personal item, carefully wrapped on a hanger. Removing it from the plastic protective covering, he shakes it out and and pulls it on. The shirt is fantastic, everything he loves - silky, purple, with just the right level of reflection. The lapels are huge, and Nick knows he looks fantastic - wide lapels have always suited him, even back when he was a kid.
It's too damn bad he hadn't been able to bring the leather pants tha match the shirt, but he'd managed to barter for a reasonable facsimile. "Thank god for alien markets," he mutters as he buttons the pants, and fastens the belt. "Right," he says, a few moments later, after he's checked himself out in the conveniently placed mirror. He looks great. He doesn't even have to tell Atlantis to start flickering colourful lights around the room, to start making more complex patterns flashing through the floor. The city just does it, and yeah, this makes it all worth it.
"I think mix number five," he says, stretching out. The floor is cool against his feet. Sure enough, a low bass starts up, quickly becoming a fast beat, and hell yes, this is what he needs after another bullshit day in the Pegasus Galaxy. "1979, it's dancing time," he mouths, in time with the music. "1979, we're supermen!"
During downtime, Nick Lorne likes to dance.
Twenty minutes later, he's breathing hard, feeling the burn in his calves, really getting into it, trying to perfect the backflip and turn combo he's been working on for months. Atlantis notches up the lights, increases the bass a little, and the only thing that's missing right about now is someone to dance with.
"Too bad," he says to Atlantis, gasping slightly, "that Disco Stu doesn't make house calls."
The lights flash brightly, once, twice, and Atlantis brings up 'Dancing Queen'.
Nick just laughs.
Fandom: SGA
Words: About 550
Summary: It's all about balance.
Notes: Lyric from Revanche's "1979, It's Dancing Time." (I think). Written for summercon's Bad Manips and the Stories that Love Them Challenge (scroll down to find my inspiration, made by wearmyhat (Lorne and his 'wonderful' shirt) - note that a couple of the manips are NOT worksafe; it's also an image heavy link). I feel shame for this, but hey! how could I resist that manip? I just couldn't.
Warning: Ridiculousness.
It's all about balance, Nick Lorne figures. That's the way to stay sane. Balance a boring meeting with a good workout, balance weapons training with hand-to-hand, and balance a shit mission with some great downtime. The worse the mission, the better the downtime, that's the way it should be.
Getting captured, having his death faked, and spending too long in a cell wearing itchy, non-reg clothing means he deserves some really, really good downtime. The kind of downtime he tries to keep to a minimum, because you don't want to wear that vibe out. Even as he's walking through the 'gate, nodding at Dr. Weir, and assuring Dr. Beckett that he isn't injured, Nick's already thinking about what he wants.
He manages to keep his anticipation hidden, though.
*
"Come on, baby," he says to Atlantis, as soon as he steps into his room. It's fantastic to have the gene, especially on days like this. "You know what I'm looking for." He pats the wall as he talks. The city, he's convinced, likes to be treated right.
Already, the lights are dimming, and the door has locked firmly behind him. He takes off his earpiece and tosses it on the bed. "You want to clear this place out?" he asks, and Atlantis obliges, hiding the desk, the chairs, the bed, leaving behind a clear, empty space, subtle patterns already flickering along the floor.
Watching them, he can already feel himself starting to relax, the knots working themselves out of his shoulders.
Reluctantly, he leaves the room, takes a quick shower, and when he comes back, the ceiling has been transformed into tiny, flickering mirrors. Excellent.
He goes to the closet, pulls out his personal item, carefully wrapped on a hanger. Removing it from the plastic protective covering, he shakes it out and and pulls it on. The shirt is fantastic, everything he loves - silky, purple, with just the right level of reflection. The lapels are huge, and Nick knows he looks fantastic - wide lapels have always suited him, even back when he was a kid.
It's too damn bad he hadn't been able to bring the leather pants tha match the shirt, but he'd managed to barter for a reasonable facsimile. "Thank god for alien markets," he mutters as he buttons the pants, and fastens the belt. "Right," he says, a few moments later, after he's checked himself out in the conveniently placed mirror. He looks great. He doesn't even have to tell Atlantis to start flickering colourful lights around the room, to start making more complex patterns flashing through the floor. The city just does it, and yeah, this makes it all worth it.
"I think mix number five," he says, stretching out. The floor is cool against his feet. Sure enough, a low bass starts up, quickly becoming a fast beat, and hell yes, this is what he needs after another bullshit day in the Pegasus Galaxy. "1979, it's dancing time," he mouths, in time with the music. "1979, we're supermen!"
During downtime, Nick Lorne likes to dance.
Twenty minutes later, he's breathing hard, feeling the burn in his calves, really getting into it, trying to perfect the backflip and turn combo he's been working on for months. Atlantis notches up the lights, increases the bass a little, and the only thing that's missing right about now is someone to dance with.
"Too bad," he says to Atlantis, gasping slightly, "that Disco Stu doesn't make house calls."
The lights flash brightly, once, twice, and Atlantis brings up 'Dancing Queen'.
Nick just laughs.