Appellathon Comment Fic/Art/Whatever Challenge (May 6 through June 8)

[raz0rgirl]

Consider this the official in_a_name commentworks post! Reply to this post with comment fic/art/other fanworks of your making from today through June 8, 2009 (Yes, I've shamelessly set the last day of the challenge on my birthday so I can get those wonderful last day posts as de facto presents 'cuz that's how I roll). No minimums or limits or anything. If

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“Geneva” (SGA/The Shipping News [novel], Rodney McKay, Quoyle, a rodney boat: gen)

[brewsternorth]

Rodney hated it all. Hated that he had seasickness to add to his gatelag, his jetlag, and his airsickness (he refused on several grounds to take medication for any of these), hated that he'd been just curious enough to know which of his relatives had come from this particularly shriveled extremity of his native country to actually bother to respond to a call on his late great-aunt Ginny's behalf to a will-reading in Killick-Claw, Newfoundland. (Killick-Claw, for god's sake: it sounded more like the name of a monster in a bad B-movie.) Hated that, for the sake of what was ludicrous pride in hindsight, he'd chosen to go on this mission alone, so that it was just him and a fellow who apparently ran some laughable excuse for a website (Gammy Bird, another ridiculous name) in this boat that looked as though it could barely float in a bathtub, let alone be sculled - as it was being - across the open sea.

“She's a real beauty,” rumbled the Gammy Bird's webmaster - Doyle? Quoyle - resting his oars. “You got the jackpot in that will. Don't make rodney-boats like this any more.”

“No doubt,” Rodney snapped between clenched teeth. “Now can we go back? Please?”

Quoyle put a large hand thoughtfully to his massive chin, nodded briefly, and went back to rowing.

John was peering at the little rowboat moored to one of Atlantis' piers with the same sort of quizzical admiration he'd previously reserved for the Ancient gadgets they kept coming across. The way he put his head to one side and sighted up one side of the boat, Rodney guessed he was trying to assess the boat using his pilot's knowhow. It seemed to meet with his satisfaction. (Just as well, thought Rodney, considering all the damn paperwork he'd had to get through to get the thing crated up and sent over to SGC headquarters, then forwarded to Atlantis.)

Then the name Rodney had asked to be painted onto the bows seemed to catch John's eye. “Geneva? Like, Switzerland?”

“No,” said Rodney, “Geneva Carrick. My great-aunt from Newfoundland.”