Stuff I Made for the Holidays, Part 2
3 longer ficlets written for fandom_stocking:
Title: Consultation
Fandoms: White Collar/Indiana Jones
Characters: Peter, Elle, Neal, Indy
Rating: G
Written for: tellitslant
It’s not often that Peter and Elle get to work the same party.
“Almost makes you wish we could actually attend one together, huh?” she asks, straightening his tie, then giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Not even a little bit.” Peter grins and kisses her full on the mouth, placing a hand on her back to pull her in close.
“Sweetie, you’re going to make us late,” Elizabeth says, making a superficial attempt to extricate herself.
“Let ‘em talk,” he replies, pulling her even closer and making an intense study of her mouth with his own.
“It’s not so much the letting-‘em-talk that I’m worried about,” she says, placing her hands on his chest. “It’s the getting-me-fired part.”
Peter tips his head back and lets out a sigh. “I guess we can’t have that.”
On the drive over, Peter stretches his fingers at a stoplight, acknowledging the fact that he might be gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
Elle tilts her head as she slips on an earring. “So what is it about this case that has you all tied up in knots?”
“Oh,” Peter exhales. “It’s just one of those damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situations.”
“Well, look on the bright side; the thief has already stolen an artifact from each of Wallace’s four other parties. He can hardly blame the FBI if another one gets taken.”
“Your best-case scenario is that a valuable object gets stolen right out from under our noses?”
“Or maybe the thief won’t show up at all,” Elle cheerfully rolls on, fastening the post on her other earring.
“And leave us to justify all the money and man hours that went into this operation? No, thank you.”
Elizabeth literally throws her hands up into the air. “Fine. I give up. Be a grouch.”
She has an approximate expression of contrition on her face when she approaches him several hours later, after the party is over.
“The manuscript?” she asks.
“Missing.” Peter replies, loosening the knot of his tie and twisting the corner of his mouth up into an approximation of a wry grin.
*******
“You didn’t invite me to the party last night, but today you want me to go with you to visit some musty old college in the country?” Neal looks scandalized.
“Yeah. I didn’t invite you to the party, and now I am telling you that we --” Peter points to himself and then to Neal to make sure he’s being perfectly clear, “-- are taking a road trip out to a college in Fairfield.”
“That’s way outside of my two-mile my radius,” Neal argues. He pouts, and lifts the cuff of his trousers to display the anklet tracker.
“You’ll live,” Peter retorts. “And I swear to god, if you whine all the way there, I’m making you wait in the car. No co-eds for you.”
“There will be co-eds?” Neal’s face perks up.
“It’s a college campus. What do you think?”
*******
There are no co-eds. There are hardly any people, just a bunch of dying leaves that swirl about whenever a breeze kicks them up.
“Liar,” Neal accuses under his breath. He doesn’t whine, though. Peter counts it as a victory.
The expert they’re looking for does not technically work for the school; even though he has no tenure there, the college has set aside office space just for him. It makes Peter’s curiosity prickle even before they enter the building.
Peter decides it’s a good omen when the door to the office they’re looking for is standing wide open.
The guy sitting behind the desk is decrepit. There are old people who look like they should creak or rattle whenever they move, and then there’s this guy, who appears half-buried under a pile of paperwork, and wears both a pair of spectacles and an eye patch.
His desk doesn’t face the door, but runs parallel to the wall beside it, so that he should be able to see Peter and Neal from the peripheral vision in his good eye.
Peter waits for a moment, then remembers -- old guy -- so he clears his throat. “Dr. Henry Jones, Jr.?” he queries.
The man doesn’t so much as glance up from his paperwork. Peter inhales a deep breath to try again, louder this time, when Neal speaks up from beside him.
“Indiana?” Peter shoots Neal a sharp glance, but Neal simply looks back impassively.
Peter redirects his attention back to the man behind the desk and finds that Jones’ lone eye is peering at them from over the rim of his glasses.
“When someone addresses me by my full name, I know they’ve been sent by the government,” Jones says, waving them into the office. “When he uses my nickname, I know he’s been sent by a colleague.” He grins, and it transforms his face.
“To be perfectly honest --” Neal begins after they’ve sat down, and Peter shoots him another look, this one even sharper. This time, Neal returns the look, but continues speaking, “-- we’re both from the government.” Peter feels his shoulders loosen incrementally. “But you’re something of a legend. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Jones snorts derisively. “Johnny Appleseed is a legend, kid. The term you’re looking for is ‘relic.’”
Neal opens his mouth, perhaps to protest, but Peter deliberately cuts him off. “We’re with the FBI. We were hoping you could provide some insight as to why someone would wish to steal this manuscript.”
He pulls several photographs out of the manila folder he’s carrying and hands them to Jones, who takes only a cursory look before handing them back.
“Got me.” Jones shrugs. “It’s a forgery.”
“Wow, he’s good!” Peter says, grinning at Neal. “How come you didn’t catch that?”
“I don’t know,” Neal replies, frowning. “Could you please elaborate?” he asks Jones.
Jones holds out a hand, and Peter passes back the photographs. From somewhere within the pile of papers on his desk, Jones produces a magnifying glass. He holds one of the photographs and the magnifying glass out to Neal, who takes them, and studies the area that Jones indicates.
“See that figure there, picking tomatoes?” When Neal nods an affirmative, Jones continues. “Tomatoes weren’t introduced into Europe for another century after this manuscript was supposedly painted.”
“I thought those were meant to be pomegranates?” It’s phrased as a statement, but Neal leaves the tone of his voice open-ended, in a question.
“Pomegranates grow on trees. That is clearly a shrub.”
“Looks like a shrub to me.” Peter can’t resist rubbing it in a little. Disgusted, Neal shoves the photos in his general direction.
After placing the photos back in the envelope, Peter extends his hand. “Thank you for your help, Dr. Jones.”
“Any time,” Jones says, clasping Peter’s hand and giving it a good, firm shake. “The kid was right about one thing, though. Call me Indiana.”
Title: Match Game 2010
Fandoms: Match Game/Multifandom
Characters: Lots
Rating: PG
Written for: havlockvetinari
“Okay, Mary Sue has chosen envelope A,” Gene rehashes for the benefit of the unseen audience. “The whole panel gets to play, because no one matched Mary Sue’s last answer.”
The studio audience lets out a sympathetic, “Awwwww.”
He opens the envelope, and reads the prompt within. “When Bobby spills punch down the front of her dress, Sally yells, ‘You’ve ruined my dress, you dirty blank!’” He repeats the sentence once more.
Some of the panelists look thoughtful; most just scribble down a word.
Gene turns to the contestant. “When Bobby spills punch down the front of her dress, Sally yells, ‘You’ve ruined my dress, you dirty…?”
“Rat!” Mary Sue almost growls out the ‘r’ sound, and the studio audience titters in amusement.
“Rat,” Gene confirms, tapping the desk in front of Mary Sue. He turns to the audience. “Mary Sue seems a bit passionate on the subject. Something tells me that she’s met a few Bobbies in her time.” The audience laughs. Mary Sue blushes.
Gene takes a few steps over toward the celebrity panelists. “Now,” he begins, “Mary Sue needs three matching answers to win the game.” He repeats the sentence one more time. “When Bobby spills punch down the front of her dress, Sally yells, ‘You’ve ruined my dress, you dirty blank!’”
He looks at the first panelist. “Commodore James Norrington. What’s your answer, Jim?”
Norrington gives Gene a frosty look for using such a familiar nickname, but he purses his lips and answers, “Pirate,” showing off his card which has not only the word [PIRATE] on it, but also a small doodle of a skull.
The audience groans, because the word ‘pirate’ has been Norrington’s answer for the last four rounds. The indicator makes a buzzing sound for no match.
“Moving on!” Gene says quickly, before Norrington can draw his saber on the audience. “Jayne Cobb, what did you write?”
“Shi dan,” Jayne says, holding up a card with [PYLE OF TURD] written on it (in very wobbly letters).
The audience gasps, and the buzzer sounds. “Well, this is fast becoming a game that will never hit the airwaves,” Gene says, trying to smooth things over.
“I have an answer,” the next panelist offers, adjusting his cufflinks.
“Ah, yes, James Bond,” Gene replies.
Bond holds up his card, which reads [RAT]. When the audience cheers, he gives a debonair smirk.
The bell dings to indicate a match, and Bond slides his card into the disposal slot with a flourish. Norrington is still tearing up his card into little, little pieces.
“Dr. Arthur Nielson,” Gene introduces the next guest. “How ‘bout it, Artie?”
Artie flips over his card, showing off the word [FERRET]. “I was thinking of one of my co-workers,” he explains. The buzzer sounds.
“Richard Dawson,” Gene says, moving along. He’s getting the signal from one of the stage hands to wrap it up quickly. “Surely you have some edifying comment for us all.”
“Just that I agree with Jimmy Cagney, and not Jimmy Norrington up there,” Richard says, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder and displaying his card -- which bears the word [RAT]. The bell chimes to indicate a match.
Gene turns toward the audiences, both visible and invisible. “We’re down to the final panelist, and Mary Sue still needs one more matching answer to win the game.”
“Shawn Spencer, what did you write?” Gene asks.
“Well, Gene," Shawn affably replies, "I, myself, prefer a good Planet of the Apes reference.” The audience begins to make a low rumble of disappointment. “But --” Shawn grins at Mary Sue, “I psychically divined what you were planning to say, so!” He brandishes his card, which is emblazoned with the word [RAT], complete with little round ears and a curvy tail.
The audience cheers, and the bell dings. Mary Sue has won, and the flashing lights reflect in her eyes like a hundred little beacons of joy.
Title: Errand
Fandoms: SGA/Warehouse 13
Characters: John, Rodney, Artie
Rating: G
Written for: heatherly
“So this is South Dakota.” Rodney sounds unimpressed. “Please tell me that doesn’t mean there is some equally godforsaken place called North Dakota.”
“Last time I checked, yeah, there is.” John shoots Rodney a look as he brings the car to a stop. Rodney catches him.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’ve seen the Canadian flag patch on my jacket every day for the past five years. You can’t expect me to know the geography of your country.”
“So that’s what that red square was! I wasn’t really sure, because I’m not Canadian,” John replies.
Rodney’s face immediately begins to pink up, and a tiny grin escapes at the corner of John’s mouth. Rodney catches that, too.
“Fine, Colonel. Touché,” Rodney says, wrestling the passenger door open.
The keys jangle as John pulls them out of the ignition, echoing the buzz of energy thrumming in his chest. As much as he loves Atlantis, he’d been getting really stir crazy. He’s pleased to be out and about, even if it does mean playing errand boy for the IOA.
When he gets out of the car, John turns to see Rodney gawking up at the building.
“Oh my god. There is no way that thing is structurally sound. Not to mention the amount of mold and other pathogens that are no doubt lingering in those oxidized nooks and crannies…” as Rodney drones on, John reflects that, of course, if he were on the IOA board, he would want a chance to look over Rodney’s labs without Rodney’s supervision. He only hopes, for their sake, that Rodney finds everything unchanged when they return.
“Duck!” an unfamiliar voice interrupts Rodney’s diatribe. John crouches behind the car, and reaches for a thigh holster that isn’t there.
“What?” Rodney asks, looking around in confusion. A football hits him in the face. “Are you trying to kill me?” Rodney squawks in outrage, pressing a hand to his nose (which is not even bleeding, John is pleased to note).
“Of course not. I told you to duck, didn’t I?” The speaker turns out to be a bespectacled man who looks like he’d be right at home with the rest of the lab rats on Atlantis’ science team. Except for the cardigan sweater he’s wearing. “I’m Artie,” he says, extending a hand. John stops himself from glancing at Rodney, who is surely rolling his eyes at a one-name introduction.
“John Sheppard.” He shakes Artie’s hand. “I ducked.”
“I’m not surprised, Colonel,” Artie replies. “And you must be Dr. McKay.”
“Naturally,” Rodney replies, giving the bridge of his nose one last rub.
“I take it you knew we were coming.” John sticks his hands into his pockets.
“Well, I’m not going to allow complete strangers to run around willy-nilly inside my warehouse, am I?”
“Then you must know why we’re here,” John continues.
“I do.” Artie replies, clearly wondering what point John is trying to make.
“So you won’t try to stop us when we remove the artifacts in question,” John finishes, then adds, “Because I’ve been told, unofficially, that that might be a bit of a problem.”
“No, no, that won’t be a problem. The items that you’ll be looking at don’t even work for most people. Something about having a certain genetic marker.”
Rodney snorts, casually waving a thumb in John’s direction. “He does.” John grits his teeth. He had hoped that by now, Rodney would have understood the concept of not laying all their cards on the table.
“Interesting.” Artie adjusts his glasses, and takes a closer look at John, as though he ought to be able to see the structure of John’s DNA by looking into his face. John had been mistaken when he was so quick categorize Artie as a lab rat -- he hadn’t seen such a calculating look in someone’s eyes since he’d last talked to Woolsey -- or, heck, maybe even Elizabeth. He knows that his information has just been filed away someplace in Artie’s mind, to be pulled out and examined for later use.
He wishes Rodney was standing a bit closer. It would be a lot easier to ‘accidentally’ elbow him in the gut that way.
“Shall we get on with it?” John asks.
“Ah. Yes,” Artie blinks. “We’re just going to go through that door, and then we’ll access the actual warehouse through the umbilical.” He begins to walk toward the building, and John follows him.
“That just sounds so wrong,” Rodney mutters.
For once, John is forced to agree with him.
Title: Consultation
Fandoms: White Collar/Indiana Jones
Characters: Peter, Elle, Neal, Indy
Rating: G
Written for: tellitslant
It’s not often that Peter and Elle get to work the same party.
“Almost makes you wish we could actually attend one together, huh?” she asks, straightening his tie, then giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Not even a little bit.” Peter grins and kisses her full on the mouth, placing a hand on her back to pull her in close.
“Sweetie, you’re going to make us late,” Elizabeth says, making a superficial attempt to extricate herself.
“Let ‘em talk,” he replies, pulling her even closer and making an intense study of her mouth with his own.
“It’s not so much the letting-‘em-talk that I’m worried about,” she says, placing her hands on his chest. “It’s the getting-me-fired part.”
Peter tips his head back and lets out a sigh. “I guess we can’t have that.”
On the drive over, Peter stretches his fingers at a stoplight, acknowledging the fact that he might be gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
Elle tilts her head as she slips on an earring. “So what is it about this case that has you all tied up in knots?”
“Oh,” Peter exhales. “It’s just one of those damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situations.”
“Well, look on the bright side; the thief has already stolen an artifact from each of Wallace’s four other parties. He can hardly blame the FBI if another one gets taken.”
“Your best-case scenario is that a valuable object gets stolen right out from under our noses?”
“Or maybe the thief won’t show up at all,” Elle cheerfully rolls on, fastening the post on her other earring.
“And leave us to justify all the money and man hours that went into this operation? No, thank you.”
Elizabeth literally throws her hands up into the air. “Fine. I give up. Be a grouch.”
She has an approximate expression of contrition on her face when she approaches him several hours later, after the party is over.
“The manuscript?” she asks.
“Missing.” Peter replies, loosening the knot of his tie and twisting the corner of his mouth up into an approximation of a wry grin.
*******
“You didn’t invite me to the party last night, but today you want me to go with you to visit some musty old college in the country?” Neal looks scandalized.
“Yeah. I didn’t invite you to the party, and now I am telling you that we --” Peter points to himself and then to Neal to make sure he’s being perfectly clear, “-- are taking a road trip out to a college in Fairfield.”
“That’s way outside of my two-mile my radius,” Neal argues. He pouts, and lifts the cuff of his trousers to display the anklet tracker.
“You’ll live,” Peter retorts. “And I swear to god, if you whine all the way there, I’m making you wait in the car. No co-eds for you.”
“There will be co-eds?” Neal’s face perks up.
“It’s a college campus. What do you think?”
*******
There are no co-eds. There are hardly any people, just a bunch of dying leaves that swirl about whenever a breeze kicks them up.
“Liar,” Neal accuses under his breath. He doesn’t whine, though. Peter counts it as a victory.
The expert they’re looking for does not technically work for the school; even though he has no tenure there, the college has set aside office space just for him. It makes Peter’s curiosity prickle even before they enter the building.
Peter decides it’s a good omen when the door to the office they’re looking for is standing wide open.
The guy sitting behind the desk is decrepit. There are old people who look like they should creak or rattle whenever they move, and then there’s this guy, who appears half-buried under a pile of paperwork, and wears both a pair of spectacles and an eye patch.
His desk doesn’t face the door, but runs parallel to the wall beside it, so that he should be able to see Peter and Neal from the peripheral vision in his good eye.
Peter waits for a moment, then remembers -- old guy -- so he clears his throat. “Dr. Henry Jones, Jr.?” he queries.
The man doesn’t so much as glance up from his paperwork. Peter inhales a deep breath to try again, louder this time, when Neal speaks up from beside him.
“Indiana?” Peter shoots Neal a sharp glance, but Neal simply looks back impassively.
Peter redirects his attention back to the man behind the desk and finds that Jones’ lone eye is peering at them from over the rim of his glasses.
“When someone addresses me by my full name, I know they’ve been sent by the government,” Jones says, waving them into the office. “When he uses my nickname, I know he’s been sent by a colleague.” He grins, and it transforms his face.
“To be perfectly honest --” Neal begins after they’ve sat down, and Peter shoots him another look, this one even sharper. This time, Neal returns the look, but continues speaking, “-- we’re both from the government.” Peter feels his shoulders loosen incrementally. “But you’re something of a legend. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Jones snorts derisively. “Johnny Appleseed is a legend, kid. The term you’re looking for is ‘relic.’”
Neal opens his mouth, perhaps to protest, but Peter deliberately cuts him off. “We’re with the FBI. We were hoping you could provide some insight as to why someone would wish to steal this manuscript.”
He pulls several photographs out of the manila folder he’s carrying and hands them to Jones, who takes only a cursory look before handing them back.
“Got me.” Jones shrugs. “It’s a forgery.”
“Wow, he’s good!” Peter says, grinning at Neal. “How come you didn’t catch that?”
“I don’t know,” Neal replies, frowning. “Could you please elaborate?” he asks Jones.
Jones holds out a hand, and Peter passes back the photographs. From somewhere within the pile of papers on his desk, Jones produces a magnifying glass. He holds one of the photographs and the magnifying glass out to Neal, who takes them, and studies the area that Jones indicates.
“See that figure there, picking tomatoes?” When Neal nods an affirmative, Jones continues. “Tomatoes weren’t introduced into Europe for another century after this manuscript was supposedly painted.”
“I thought those were meant to be pomegranates?” It’s phrased as a statement, but Neal leaves the tone of his voice open-ended, in a question.
“Pomegranates grow on trees. That is clearly a shrub.”
“Looks like a shrub to me.” Peter can’t resist rubbing it in a little. Disgusted, Neal shoves the photos in his general direction.
After placing the photos back in the envelope, Peter extends his hand. “Thank you for your help, Dr. Jones.”
“Any time,” Jones says, clasping Peter’s hand and giving it a good, firm shake. “The kid was right about one thing, though. Call me Indiana.”
Title: Match Game 2010
Fandoms: Match Game/Multifandom
Characters: Lots
Rating: PG
Written for: havlockvetinari
“Okay, Mary Sue has chosen envelope A,” Gene rehashes for the benefit of the unseen audience. “The whole panel gets to play, because no one matched Mary Sue’s last answer.”
The studio audience lets out a sympathetic, “Awwwww.”
He opens the envelope, and reads the prompt within. “When Bobby spills punch down the front of her dress, Sally yells, ‘You’ve ruined my dress, you dirty blank!’” He repeats the sentence once more.
Some of the panelists look thoughtful; most just scribble down a word.
Gene turns to the contestant. “When Bobby spills punch down the front of her dress, Sally yells, ‘You’ve ruined my dress, you dirty…?”
“Rat!” Mary Sue almost growls out the ‘r’ sound, and the studio audience titters in amusement.
“Rat,” Gene confirms, tapping the desk in front of Mary Sue. He turns to the audience. “Mary Sue seems a bit passionate on the subject. Something tells me that she’s met a few Bobbies in her time.” The audience laughs. Mary Sue blushes.
Gene takes a few steps over toward the celebrity panelists. “Now,” he begins, “Mary Sue needs three matching answers to win the game.” He repeats the sentence one more time. “When Bobby spills punch down the front of her dress, Sally yells, ‘You’ve ruined my dress, you dirty blank!’”
He looks at the first panelist. “Commodore James Norrington. What’s your answer, Jim?”
Norrington gives Gene a frosty look for using such a familiar nickname, but he purses his lips and answers, “Pirate,” showing off his card which has not only the word [PIRATE] on it, but also a small doodle of a skull.
The audience groans, because the word ‘pirate’ has been Norrington’s answer for the last four rounds. The indicator makes a buzzing sound for no match.
“Moving on!” Gene says quickly, before Norrington can draw his saber on the audience. “Jayne Cobb, what did you write?”
“Shi dan,” Jayne says, holding up a card with [PYLE OF TURD] written on it (in very wobbly letters).
The audience gasps, and the buzzer sounds. “Well, this is fast becoming a game that will never hit the airwaves,” Gene says, trying to smooth things over.
“I have an answer,” the next panelist offers, adjusting his cufflinks.
“Ah, yes, James Bond,” Gene replies.
Bond holds up his card, which reads [RAT]. When the audience cheers, he gives a debonair smirk.
The bell dings to indicate a match, and Bond slides his card into the disposal slot with a flourish. Norrington is still tearing up his card into little, little pieces.
“Dr. Arthur Nielson,” Gene introduces the next guest. “How ‘bout it, Artie?”
Artie flips over his card, showing off the word [FERRET]. “I was thinking of one of my co-workers,” he explains. The buzzer sounds.
“Richard Dawson,” Gene says, moving along. He’s getting the signal from one of the stage hands to wrap it up quickly. “Surely you have some edifying comment for us all.”
“Just that I agree with Jimmy Cagney, and not Jimmy Norrington up there,” Richard says, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder and displaying his card -- which bears the word [RAT]. The bell chimes to indicate a match.
Gene turns toward the audiences, both visible and invisible. “We’re down to the final panelist, and Mary Sue still needs one more matching answer to win the game.”
“Shawn Spencer, what did you write?” Gene asks.
“Well, Gene," Shawn affably replies, "I, myself, prefer a good Planet of the Apes reference.” The audience begins to make a low rumble of disappointment. “But --” Shawn grins at Mary Sue, “I psychically divined what you were planning to say, so!” He brandishes his card, which is emblazoned with the word [RAT], complete with little round ears and a curvy tail.
The audience cheers, and the bell dings. Mary Sue has won, and the flashing lights reflect in her eyes like a hundred little beacons of joy.
Title: Errand
Fandoms: SGA/Warehouse 13
Characters: John, Rodney, Artie
Rating: G
Written for: heatherly
“So this is South Dakota.” Rodney sounds unimpressed. “Please tell me that doesn’t mean there is some equally godforsaken place called North Dakota.”
“Last time I checked, yeah, there is.” John shoots Rodney a look as he brings the car to a stop. Rodney catches him.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’ve seen the Canadian flag patch on my jacket every day for the past five years. You can’t expect me to know the geography of your country.”
“So that’s what that red square was! I wasn’t really sure, because I’m not Canadian,” John replies.
Rodney’s face immediately begins to pink up, and a tiny grin escapes at the corner of John’s mouth. Rodney catches that, too.
“Fine, Colonel. Touché,” Rodney says, wrestling the passenger door open.
The keys jangle as John pulls them out of the ignition, echoing the buzz of energy thrumming in his chest. As much as he loves Atlantis, he’d been getting really stir crazy. He’s pleased to be out and about, even if it does mean playing errand boy for the IOA.
When he gets out of the car, John turns to see Rodney gawking up at the building.
“Oh my god. There is no way that thing is structurally sound. Not to mention the amount of mold and other pathogens that are no doubt lingering in those oxidized nooks and crannies…” as Rodney drones on, John reflects that, of course, if he were on the IOA board, he would want a chance to look over Rodney’s labs without Rodney’s supervision. He only hopes, for their sake, that Rodney finds everything unchanged when they return.
“Duck!” an unfamiliar voice interrupts Rodney’s diatribe. John crouches behind the car, and reaches for a thigh holster that isn’t there.
“What?” Rodney asks, looking around in confusion. A football hits him in the face. “Are you trying to kill me?” Rodney squawks in outrage, pressing a hand to his nose (which is not even bleeding, John is pleased to note).
“Of course not. I told you to duck, didn’t I?” The speaker turns out to be a bespectacled man who looks like he’d be right at home with the rest of the lab rats on Atlantis’ science team. Except for the cardigan sweater he’s wearing. “I’m Artie,” he says, extending a hand. John stops himself from glancing at Rodney, who is surely rolling his eyes at a one-name introduction.
“John Sheppard.” He shakes Artie’s hand. “I ducked.”
“I’m not surprised, Colonel,” Artie replies. “And you must be Dr. McKay.”
“Naturally,” Rodney replies, giving the bridge of his nose one last rub.
“I take it you knew we were coming.” John sticks his hands into his pockets.
“Well, I’m not going to allow complete strangers to run around willy-nilly inside my warehouse, am I?”
“Then you must know why we’re here,” John continues.
“I do.” Artie replies, clearly wondering what point John is trying to make.
“So you won’t try to stop us when we remove the artifacts in question,” John finishes, then adds, “Because I’ve been told, unofficially, that that might be a bit of a problem.”
“No, no, that won’t be a problem. The items that you’ll be looking at don’t even work for most people. Something about having a certain genetic marker.”
Rodney snorts, casually waving a thumb in John’s direction. “He does.” John grits his teeth. He had hoped that by now, Rodney would have understood the concept of not laying all their cards on the table.
“Interesting.” Artie adjusts his glasses, and takes a closer look at John, as though he ought to be able to see the structure of John’s DNA by looking into his face. John had been mistaken when he was so quick categorize Artie as a lab rat -- he hadn’t seen such a calculating look in someone’s eyes since he’d last talked to Woolsey -- or, heck, maybe even Elizabeth. He knows that his information has just been filed away someplace in Artie’s mind, to be pulled out and examined for later use.
He wishes Rodney was standing a bit closer. It would be a lot easier to ‘accidentally’ elbow him in the gut that way.
“Shall we get on with it?” John asks.
“Ah. Yes,” Artie blinks. “We’re just going to go through that door, and then we’ll access the actual warehouse through the umbilical.” He begins to walk toward the building, and John follows him.
“That just sounds so wrong,” Rodney mutters.
For once, John is forced to agree with him.