Ficlet: Attack of the Electrified Zaaga Beast
Attack of the Electrified Zaaga Beast by sheafrotherdon
~500 words, John/Rodney, PG. John will never reveal his source.
There are few certainties in John Sheppard's life, but this is one of them: he will never reveal his source. Hidden in the labyrinth recesses of his mind are state secrets that no power in two galaxies could make him divulge, and the means by which he ordered, shipped, and smuggled a Snuggie to Atlantis and then to his quarters is tucked away right next to them. His Snuggie is perfect. It's deep blue, soft to the touch, and almost unbearably awesome. Life may be capricious, IOA policies baffling, and the college football season several months too short, but nothing's unbearable when a man knows there's a Snuggie stuffed under the couch. This is John's conclusion, and he tries to tell Rodney as much when he's surprised with-Snuggie that night, without much success.
"It has arms, Rodney." John waves his hands to demonstrate the truth of that statement - surely Rodney can't withstand the beauty of a fleece with arms.
But Rodney is a hard man on matters of blankets. "I can see as much, thank you, Colonel."
"Yeah. So."
"It's as though you've been consumed by a muppet."
John thinks about that. "Muppets are hairier," he points out. "Tufty."
"Perhaps it shaved before it picked you for dinner. Perhaps it was hit by a ray gun that made most of its hair fall out. Maybe it has radiation sickness and . . ."
John does his eyebrow thing, because it's a damn good eyebrow thing, and he has nothing else.
Rodney huffs and bends to pluck at the fabric. "You look ridiculous. If I shared photographic evidence of this . . ."
"Pffffffft," John offers intelligently - it's one step up from sticking out his tongue. "You're just . . . jealous."
"Jealous," Rodney repeats deadpan.
"Yeah. I mean, you don't have a blanket with arms that lets you . . ." He trails off, since he has no idea where he's going with this.
"Hmm?"
"I don't know." He thinks quickly. "Read. Play your Gameboy." Inspiration hits. "Eat a sandwich while your arms are warm."
Rodney sighs heavily and unzips his jacket. "Right. Well." He sniffs and drops his jacket on the floor. "Fine."
John looks at him.
"Only one thing for it."
John waits warily.
"I'm coming in."
And John didn't see that coming, has no time to prepare, none at all before Rodney's ducked under the Snuggie to attack his person, attack his hips and his ribs and all kinds of other places with hands and lips and drafts of cold air that make John squirm and gasp and try to kick him off, but the man is solid, solid and stubborn, and there's not much John can do when Rodney sticks his head out of the top of the blanket, hair sticking up like an electrified zaaga beast, and says, "oh, well, hello, fancy seeing you here," nothing really except laugh and laugh and kiss Rodney's ridiculous face.
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~500 words, John/Rodney, PG. John will never reveal his source.
There are few certainties in John Sheppard's life, but this is one of them: he will never reveal his source. Hidden in the labyrinth recesses of his mind are state secrets that no power in two galaxies could make him divulge, and the means by which he ordered, shipped, and smuggled a Snuggie to Atlantis and then to his quarters is tucked away right next to them. His Snuggie is perfect. It's deep blue, soft to the touch, and almost unbearably awesome. Life may be capricious, IOA policies baffling, and the college football season several months too short, but nothing's unbearable when a man knows there's a Snuggie stuffed under the couch. This is John's conclusion, and he tries to tell Rodney as much when he's surprised with-Snuggie that night, without much success.
"It has arms, Rodney." John waves his hands to demonstrate the truth of that statement - surely Rodney can't withstand the beauty of a fleece with arms.
But Rodney is a hard man on matters of blankets. "I can see as much, thank you, Colonel."
"Yeah. So."
"It's as though you've been consumed by a muppet."
John thinks about that. "Muppets are hairier," he points out. "Tufty."
"Perhaps it shaved before it picked you for dinner. Perhaps it was hit by a ray gun that made most of its hair fall out. Maybe it has radiation sickness and . . ."
John does his eyebrow thing, because it's a damn good eyebrow thing, and he has nothing else.
Rodney huffs and bends to pluck at the fabric. "You look ridiculous. If I shared photographic evidence of this . . ."
"Pffffffft," John offers intelligently - it's one step up from sticking out his tongue. "You're just . . . jealous."
"Jealous," Rodney repeats deadpan.
"Yeah. I mean, you don't have a blanket with arms that lets you . . ." He trails off, since he has no idea where he's going with this.
"Hmm?"
"I don't know." He thinks quickly. "Read. Play your Gameboy." Inspiration hits. "Eat a sandwich while your arms are warm."
Rodney sighs heavily and unzips his jacket. "Right. Well." He sniffs and drops his jacket on the floor. "Fine."
John looks at him.
"Only one thing for it."
John waits warily.
"I'm coming in."
And John didn't see that coming, has no time to prepare, none at all before Rodney's ducked under the Snuggie to attack his person, attack his hips and his ribs and all kinds of other places with hands and lips and drafts of cold air that make John squirm and gasp and try to kick him off, but the man is solid, solid and stubborn, and there's not much John can do when Rodney sticks his head out of the top of the blanket, hair sticking up like an electrified zaaga beast, and says, "oh, well, hello, fancy seeing you here," nothing really except laugh and laugh and kiss Rodney's ridiculous face.
Give chkc feedback for her ADORABLE art by clicking here