(Untitled)
Birthdays definitely shouldn't be allowed to be on Mondays (unless one has the day off, of course). Still! Swag included some lovely tea, and the Wallace & Gromit and Harry Potter DVDs, and iTunes cash, so here are a few recently downloaded goodies:
Sway, The Perishers
Skinny Dippin' Girl, Joe Purdy
Cry, Cry, Cry, Johnny Cash
Folsom Prison Blues, ( Read more... )
Sway, The Perishers
Skinny Dippin' Girl, Joe Purdy
Cry, Cry, Cry, Johnny Cash
Folsom Prison Blues, ( Read more... )
Part one: Rodney almost drowns. John gives him mouth to mouth. :> The end.
Part two:
“I can’t believe,” John says, for the eleventh time (he’s kept count), “that you don’t know how to swim.”
They’ve crammed enough people into the infirmary to make Carson nervous, everyone still dressed in ocean-tribute finery, and Rodney looks pale and miserable, holding a basin. John realizes he’s gone too far when McKay doesn’t even bother to bite back a response, just closes his eyes.
“All right,” Carson snaps, finally, “everybody out except you -” he points at Elizabeth, “and you.” John.
Carson has, it appears, run enough tests on Rodney to determine everything but why he refuses to accept Heisenburg’s Uncertainty Principle. In a culture where fresh water is a precious commodity, the gifting ceremony had less to do with religion than a sudden abundance of resources. John and Rodney, thanks to the grape juice cocktail, now need substantially less water; Teyla and the other women will be drinking gallons. According to Carson, it’s a strange sort of fertility ritual - he goes on about owls for as long as it takes Elizabeth to stop him.
The problem is, Rodney swallowed enough salt water to throw his body into shock, and Carson still isn’t quite sure how to fix it.
“You,” he says, gesturing at John, again. “Since you made him miserable, you stay.”
Carson, John realizes, has not underestimated the potential for an outburst, once Rodney has stopped throwing up. Elizabeth follows Carson into his office as he shifts readouts and mutters about hyponatremia, and John sits down in the uncomfortable chair next to Rodney’s bed.
“I’m sorry,” Rodney says, finally, still what John considers to be an interesting shade of green.
“You’re an idiot,” John informs him, and props his boots up on the foot of his bed, settling in. He shuts his eyes.
“I can’t believe,” Rodney says, finally, a full five minutes later, indignant through obvious discomfort, “that you’re sleeping. What if I had a seizure? What if I died?”
“I can’t believe,” John replies, cheerful in spite of things, “that you don’t know how to swim.”
Rodney shuts up.
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment