The Commencement of Operation Ficspam
The day the nurses start wearing Team Edward and Team Jacob buttons, Jennifer petitions for shore leave. According to the paperwork she is now filling out, she needs to have a valid reason for her departure. She has a valid reason, of course, but she has a feeling that Woolsey won’t really care about her romantic problems, and it’s already so horribly unprofessional of her to be running away that she won’t try to sell that angle anyway.
She thinks about telling Woolsey that her entire nursing staff has gone psychotic and is now not only betting on who the next man she kisses will be, but comparing them to the main characters of one of the most horribly written novels in existence.
(The reason she read it: duress, teenage cousins.)
Everyone is amused, except for Teyla (who doesn’t know what’s going on), John (who wouldn’t know romantic conflict if it bit him in the ass), and Rodney and Ronon (for obvious reasons). There has been more laughter in the infirmary than Jennifer has ever seen, and normally she would be approving, except normally she is not the butt of numerous jokes as to whether she prefers dogs or leeches.
She supposes that, in the end, this is really her fault, because bad books have been a habit of hers since childhood. If Michelle hadn’t caught her (Jennifer) during her (Michelle) smoking break, huddled like a junkie on one of the balconies with a copy of The Boy Next Door under her arm, none of this would have happened.
There is the lightest rap of knuckles on the doorway, and Jennifer looks up before she can stop herself or think to ask who would be at her doorway at three in the morning. It is John, hair frizzy and eyes sallow, looking remarkably sharp-eyed for someone who she had forcibly confined to bed rest three hours earlier.
“Bed,” she says.
“Buttons,” he counters, and they are at a standstill. Jennifer gives an inaudible sign, running her hand down her face and feeling like Woolsey no doubt does while doling out team assignments.
“They’re nothing,” she says into her wrist. “A joke. Back to bed, John.”
“Which one’s Edward?” he finally asks, and she puts down her pen so she can glare at him in a properly intimidating fashion. He is obviously milking the doorframe for all the support that he can, and while she appreciates the effort he is taking to figure out what is wrong, Jennifer is almost painfully aware that she isn’t a part of John’s team, not really, and therefore not his concern.
(The answer: Rodney.)
“The vampire,” she says, pushing out her chair and standing. “Please don’t pretend you’re curious about badly-written teenage romance novels, John. If you’re not back on your bed in about twenty seconds, I’m taking you off active duty for the next two weeks.” His eyes narrow, and she raises an eyebrow in challenge. They both know that she has won this exchange, but he sticks around for a few tense seconds before turning and shuffling back to the bed.
She peeks in on him ten minutes later, sighs to herself at how he’s mucked about with the IV, and returns to her office. The paperwork is still on her desk when she settles into her uncomfortably authoritative swivel chair; she holds her pen above the sheet, considering, before scribbling something mindless about a few mental health days, and signs it with a flourish. The sheets go into Woolsey’s mailbox, and she goes to bed.
(The irony: she always liked Jacob better.)
~
So. Yes. I have read Twilight. It was bad. I don’t know why I wrote this (drabble), because I seem to be indirectly advising you to go read it. Don’t. Your brain will melt. I think my brain is melting as I’m writing this (note), so I’m going to stop. Thoughts?
She thinks about telling Woolsey that her entire nursing staff has gone psychotic and is now not only betting on who the next man she kisses will be, but comparing them to the main characters of one of the most horribly written novels in existence.
(The reason she read it: duress, teenage cousins.)
Everyone is amused, except for Teyla (who doesn’t know what’s going on), John (who wouldn’t know romantic conflict if it bit him in the ass), and Rodney and Ronon (for obvious reasons). There has been more laughter in the infirmary than Jennifer has ever seen, and normally she would be approving, except normally she is not the butt of numerous jokes as to whether she prefers dogs or leeches.
She supposes that, in the end, this is really her fault, because bad books have been a habit of hers since childhood. If Michelle hadn’t caught her (Jennifer) during her (Michelle) smoking break, huddled like a junkie on one of the balconies with a copy of The Boy Next Door under her arm, none of this would have happened.
There is the lightest rap of knuckles on the doorway, and Jennifer looks up before she can stop herself or think to ask who would be at her doorway at three in the morning. It is John, hair frizzy and eyes sallow, looking remarkably sharp-eyed for someone who she had forcibly confined to bed rest three hours earlier.
“Bed,” she says.
“Buttons,” he counters, and they are at a standstill. Jennifer gives an inaudible sign, running her hand down her face and feeling like Woolsey no doubt does while doling out team assignments.
“They’re nothing,” she says into her wrist. “A joke. Back to bed, John.”
“Which one’s Edward?” he finally asks, and she puts down her pen so she can glare at him in a properly intimidating fashion. He is obviously milking the doorframe for all the support that he can, and while she appreciates the effort he is taking to figure out what is wrong, Jennifer is almost painfully aware that she isn’t a part of John’s team, not really, and therefore not his concern.
(The answer: Rodney.)
“The vampire,” she says, pushing out her chair and standing. “Please don’t pretend you’re curious about badly-written teenage romance novels, John. If you’re not back on your bed in about twenty seconds, I’m taking you off active duty for the next two weeks.” His eyes narrow, and she raises an eyebrow in challenge. They both know that she has won this exchange, but he sticks around for a few tense seconds before turning and shuffling back to the bed.
She peeks in on him ten minutes later, sighs to herself at how he’s mucked about with the IV, and returns to her office. The paperwork is still on her desk when she settles into her uncomfortably authoritative swivel chair; she holds her pen above the sheet, considering, before scribbling something mindless about a few mental health days, and signs it with a flourish. The sheets go into Woolsey’s mailbox, and she goes to bed.
(The irony: she always liked Jacob better.)
~
So. Yes. I have read Twilight. It was bad. I don’t know why I wrote this (drabble), because I seem to be indirectly advising you to go read it. Don’t. Your brain will melt. I think my brain is melting as I’m writing this (note), so I’m going to stop. Thoughts?