FIC: Untitled Tax-Fic, SGA, Rated PG-13
TITLE: [Untitled SGA Tax-Fic]
AUTHOR: Myownspecialself
FANDOM: Stargate Atlantis
RATING: almost PG-13, for some cussing
GENRE: Gen
CHARACTERS: Ronon Dex, Major Lorne (his POV)
WORD COUNT: ~1,520.
WARNINGS/SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: Written solely for entertainment purposes and not for profit.
SUMMARY: In which Ronon Dex and Major Lorne take a day off from fighting the Wraith and wrangle instead with the daunting intricacies of income taxes. On a separate but unrelated note: there is also pudding. And Cheetos.
NOTES: Written for celli's Fourth Annual Mildly Unofficial Tax Season Challenge. Thank you, celli, for the tax advice!
[UNTITLED]
~
"So what we need for you to do," Lorne said, "is to fill this out." He pushed the W-9 across the conference table.
Ronon picked up the form. "W. Nine. Request. For. Taxpayer. Identification." He read it in a measured cadence. "'Taxpayer.' What's that?"
"It's the standard way the government refers to contractors," Lorne said.
"Contractors?"
"Specialists. Like you," Lorne said, and Ronon nodded; Caldwell, Weir, Sheppard, McKay, and everyone else had agreed that Ronon should keep the title he had held in the Satedan army.
Lorne continued: "It's a kind of payroll form, really. It's important for withholding."
"Withholding?"
"Yes. Payroll withholding," Lorne said. "From your paycheck. For income taxes."
"Income… taxes?"
"Ah." Lorne realized that on Sateda they must use different words, of course. "Let's see. Okay… since you now work for us-- for Colonel Sheppard and Dr. Weir-- you will receive a monthly salary from the United States Air Force. From Earth."
"A salary is a kind of payment?"
Ronon seemed to be catching on, and Lorne nodded. "Exactly. For work that you do."
"I see." Ronon cast a doubtful look at the form. "So this is--
"--how you get a taxpayer number so that later you can fill out a W-4 to say how much of your salary you want the U.S. government to keep. For taxes. The government pays you, but it takes taxes. In other words, you have to give the taxes to the government."
"Ah."
"For example," Lorne said quickly, trying to push through that uncomfortable feeling that Ronon's expression produced, "if you receive one hundred dollars every month, you may decide to have ten dollars withheld each time."
"Dollars. That's your money?" Ronon said.
"Exactly." This was going to be hard, and it wasn't that Ronon was dumb. If anything, in the four weeks he had been in Atlantis, he had shown that he was of higher-than-average intelligence. But alas, the existence of the IRS and U.S. taxes often defied attempts at explanation by even some of the keenest Earth minds.
"We have something like that on Sateda. Only it's once a year," said Ronon in a pensive tone, and Lorne felt relief again: he was getting through. Ronon squinted. "On Earth you don't give them a levy once a year after the harvest?"
"No, actually," Lorne said, surprised (and glad) that the Satedans had an Earth word for it. "We pay the levy-- the taxes-- as we go. In your case, once a month, when you receive your salary. That's what we call withholding."
"I see." Ronon nodded and stroked his beard. "So if I understand correctly, every month I will send pudding to Earth?"
Lorne blinked. He opened his mouth. After a second or two, he said, "Sorry?"
"Sheppard and I agreed that he is going to pay me, but with food."
"Ah. Right. Pudding, for example?"
"Plus other stuff, but I think that the chicken and mashed potatoes will spoil if I send them to Earth once a month. And the macaroni and cheese would smear all over. The pudding and the gelatin would be better, because they come in sealed plastic cups. Hostess Twinkies are good; they last a long time, too."
Lorne didn't know what to say to that, and instead he replied, "I think maybe we should pay you with money."
"Or maybe I could even send Cheetos," Ronon said, and grinned. "Sheppard also pays me two bags a day. And two large bags of Doritos each week." Ronon frowned, and held up a finger. "But they may get crushed if they have to travel that far to Earth."
Before he could stop himself, Lorne was wondering how one would possibly go about accruing cheese-covered snack-food items on a quarterly basis. He couldn't recall having learned how to claim an additional withholding exemption in Hostess Twinkies on the W-4. This was clearly yet another failing of the American educational system. "Um, well, we should really look into paying you cash," Lorne said, a little louder and with as much finality as he could.
"I love Cheetos," Ronon said. "I really don't have much use for this dollars thing. There's no place to spend dollars here on Atlantis."
Well, this was certainly true, and Lorne thought for a moment. On Atlantis, they seemed to have evolved into a bartering economy. He was always doing favors in exchange for items, which he then often exchanged for other items or favors. Case in point: the cartridge fountain pen he was twirling in his left hand, and which Zelenka had given him in exchange for five sorely needed packages of coffee beans that Lorne had brought with him on the Daedalus.
"Okay, well, yeah," he said to Ronon, "I don't spend money here in Atlantis, either. My paycheck goes automatically every month by direct deposit into my checking--" The way Ronon's face was starting to scrunch up told Lorne that they didn't have checking accounts or electronic funds transfers on Sateda.
"See," Ronon said, obviously trying to meet Lorne halfway, "when I was in the Satedan army, the Satedan government gave the other soldiers and me a place to live and a good bed. And I had four meals a day, which wasn't great because in civilian life I usually had five, but the food was good. They gave us ten mereveli a month, but at least there were places where we could spend it. And if I needed a new stun pistol, I could have one. And a new coat and boots. And knives."
"Well, we could go with that, I suppose, except for the stun pistol. You'd have to settle for a P-90." Lorne knew all too well that Sheppard wasn't a paperwork enthusiast, which is why he thoughtfully left the reports and the forms for Lorne to take care of. And Weir showed a distinct lack of interest in pursuing the bureaucratic path in every situation, so maybe…
"But you know," Ronon said, and squared his shoulders, "I work for the Earth army now. For Sheppard. So I will complete this," and here he waved his hand at the paper, "uh, form."
"Actually, it's the U.S. Air Force and not the Army," said Lorne, "but that's the spirit!"
"You'll have to tell me," Ronon said, as he picked up a pen and squinted at the form, "what to write and where."
"Sure." Lorne started to read the form upside down. "Okay, there, you write your name." And then: "Good. And there, you write your address."
"You mean my gate address?" Ronon said. "Why will they want to dial Atlantis?"
"They're talking about a different kind of address. Hold on for a sec." It didn't seem that they used house numbers and street names on Sateda. Lorne looked at the form some more. Their villages and towns had names, but… states? And by the way, he was willing to bet damn good money the Satedans didn't use ZIP codes.
Ronon watched him patiently, and Lorne's thoughts moved to the W-4 form that awaited, and hey, if Ronon was indeed an independent contractor, then who the hell was going to generate the 1099-MISC at the end of the tax year? And the tax return and the Schedule C? And what if someone asked whether Ronon was a U.S. citizen (which he wasn't)? What if they asked, then, about the W-8 (Certificate of Foreign Status of Beneficial Owner for United States Tax Withholding!), or the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization's I-9 and the two acceptable forms of identification?
He sighed and let the W-9 fall on the table. By comparison, fighting the Wraith was much less complicated, he said wistfully to himself. He massaged his temples, which were throbbing. "Okay. I think this isn't going to happen."
"What? You don't want me to work for Colonel Sheppard?" Ronon's eyes grew wide and he stiffened.
"Don't worry," Lorne said quickly, suddenly remembering that Ronon usually carried at least four knives in different locations on his person. "You're still working for Colonel Sheppard. And I'll make sure there are always Cheetos available to pay you with."
"Good." Ronon relaxed, and so did Lorne. "Doritos, too. Don't forget."
"What I meant," Lorne continued, "was that I'm going to explain to Colonel Sheppard and Dr. Weir that completion of a W-9 isn't possible in this case. Besides, how likely is it that the auditors will come all the way to the Pegasus galaxy and find out?"
"Auditors?"
"Yeah," Lorne said, and massaged his temples some more. "Think of Wraith, but in completely human form. With suits and ties and briefcases and big, nasty tax codes. Instead of sucking out your life essence, they go after your brains. Your sanity. Your wallet."
"Holy fuckin' shit," Ronon said in an awed voice, and Lorne was impressed that Ronon was learning Earth-speak-- well, marine-speak-- so quickly, "now that is frightening."
"You don't know the half of it." Lorne grabbed the W-9 and stuffed it in his portfolio. He stood up. "Come on. You and your talk about Cheetos made me hungry. Let's get some lunch."
~END
.
AUTHOR: Myownspecialself
FANDOM: Stargate Atlantis
RATING: almost PG-13, for some cussing
GENRE: Gen
CHARACTERS: Ronon Dex, Major Lorne (his POV)
WORD COUNT: ~1,520.
WARNINGS/SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: Written solely for entertainment purposes and not for profit.
SUMMARY: In which Ronon Dex and Major Lorne take a day off from fighting the Wraith and wrangle instead with the daunting intricacies of income taxes. On a separate but unrelated note: there is also pudding. And Cheetos.
NOTES: Written for celli's Fourth Annual Mildly Unofficial Tax Season Challenge. Thank you, celli, for the tax advice!
[UNTITLED]
~
"So what we need for you to do," Lorne said, "is to fill this out." He pushed the W-9 across the conference table.
Ronon picked up the form. "W. Nine. Request. For. Taxpayer. Identification." He read it in a measured cadence. "'Taxpayer.' What's that?"
"It's the standard way the government refers to contractors," Lorne said.
"Contractors?"
"Specialists. Like you," Lorne said, and Ronon nodded; Caldwell, Weir, Sheppard, McKay, and everyone else had agreed that Ronon should keep the title he had held in the Satedan army.
Lorne continued: "It's a kind of payroll form, really. It's important for withholding."
"Withholding?"
"Yes. Payroll withholding," Lorne said. "From your paycheck. For income taxes."
"Income… taxes?"
"Ah." Lorne realized that on Sateda they must use different words, of course. "Let's see. Okay… since you now work for us-- for Colonel Sheppard and Dr. Weir-- you will receive a monthly salary from the United States Air Force. From Earth."
"A salary is a kind of payment?"
Ronon seemed to be catching on, and Lorne nodded. "Exactly. For work that you do."
"I see." Ronon cast a doubtful look at the form. "So this is--
"--how you get a taxpayer number so that later you can fill out a W-4 to say how much of your salary you want the U.S. government to keep. For taxes. The government pays you, but it takes taxes. In other words, you have to give the taxes to the government."
"Ah."
"For example," Lorne said quickly, trying to push through that uncomfortable feeling that Ronon's expression produced, "if you receive one hundred dollars every month, you may decide to have ten dollars withheld each time."
"Dollars. That's your money?" Ronon said.
"Exactly." This was going to be hard, and it wasn't that Ronon was dumb. If anything, in the four weeks he had been in Atlantis, he had shown that he was of higher-than-average intelligence. But alas, the existence of the IRS and U.S. taxes often defied attempts at explanation by even some of the keenest Earth minds.
"We have something like that on Sateda. Only it's once a year," said Ronon in a pensive tone, and Lorne felt relief again: he was getting through. Ronon squinted. "On Earth you don't give them a levy once a year after the harvest?"
"No, actually," Lorne said, surprised (and glad) that the Satedans had an Earth word for it. "We pay the levy-- the taxes-- as we go. In your case, once a month, when you receive your salary. That's what we call withholding."
"I see." Ronon nodded and stroked his beard. "So if I understand correctly, every month I will send pudding to Earth?"
Lorne blinked. He opened his mouth. After a second or two, he said, "Sorry?"
"Sheppard and I agreed that he is going to pay me, but with food."
"Ah. Right. Pudding, for example?"
"Plus other stuff, but I think that the chicken and mashed potatoes will spoil if I send them to Earth once a month. And the macaroni and cheese would smear all over. The pudding and the gelatin would be better, because they come in sealed plastic cups. Hostess Twinkies are good; they last a long time, too."
Lorne didn't know what to say to that, and instead he replied, "I think maybe we should pay you with money."
"Or maybe I could even send Cheetos," Ronon said, and grinned. "Sheppard also pays me two bags a day. And two large bags of Doritos each week." Ronon frowned, and held up a finger. "But they may get crushed if they have to travel that far to Earth."
Before he could stop himself, Lorne was wondering how one would possibly go about accruing cheese-covered snack-food items on a quarterly basis. He couldn't recall having learned how to claim an additional withholding exemption in Hostess Twinkies on the W-4. This was clearly yet another failing of the American educational system. "Um, well, we should really look into paying you cash," Lorne said, a little louder and with as much finality as he could.
"I love Cheetos," Ronon said. "I really don't have much use for this dollars thing. There's no place to spend dollars here on Atlantis."
Well, this was certainly true, and Lorne thought for a moment. On Atlantis, they seemed to have evolved into a bartering economy. He was always doing favors in exchange for items, which he then often exchanged for other items or favors. Case in point: the cartridge fountain pen he was twirling in his left hand, and which Zelenka had given him in exchange for five sorely needed packages of coffee beans that Lorne had brought with him on the Daedalus.
"Okay, well, yeah," he said to Ronon, "I don't spend money here in Atlantis, either. My paycheck goes automatically every month by direct deposit into my checking--" The way Ronon's face was starting to scrunch up told Lorne that they didn't have checking accounts or electronic funds transfers on Sateda.
"See," Ronon said, obviously trying to meet Lorne halfway, "when I was in the Satedan army, the Satedan government gave the other soldiers and me a place to live and a good bed. And I had four meals a day, which wasn't great because in civilian life I usually had five, but the food was good. They gave us ten mereveli a month, but at least there were places where we could spend it. And if I needed a new stun pistol, I could have one. And a new coat and boots. And knives."
"Well, we could go with that, I suppose, except for the stun pistol. You'd have to settle for a P-90." Lorne knew all too well that Sheppard wasn't a paperwork enthusiast, which is why he thoughtfully left the reports and the forms for Lorne to take care of. And Weir showed a distinct lack of interest in pursuing the bureaucratic path in every situation, so maybe…
"But you know," Ronon said, and squared his shoulders, "I work for the Earth army now. For Sheppard. So I will complete this," and here he waved his hand at the paper, "uh, form."
"Actually, it's the U.S. Air Force and not the Army," said Lorne, "but that's the spirit!"
"You'll have to tell me," Ronon said, as he picked up a pen and squinted at the form, "what to write and where."
"Sure." Lorne started to read the form upside down. "Okay, there, you write your name." And then: "Good. And there, you write your address."
"You mean my gate address?" Ronon said. "Why will they want to dial Atlantis?"
"They're talking about a different kind of address. Hold on for a sec." It didn't seem that they used house numbers and street names on Sateda. Lorne looked at the form some more. Their villages and towns had names, but… states? And by the way, he was willing to bet damn good money the Satedans didn't use ZIP codes.
Ronon watched him patiently, and Lorne's thoughts moved to the W-4 form that awaited, and hey, if Ronon was indeed an independent contractor, then who the hell was going to generate the 1099-MISC at the end of the tax year? And the tax return and the Schedule C? And what if someone asked whether Ronon was a U.S. citizen (which he wasn't)? What if they asked, then, about the W-8 (Certificate of Foreign Status of Beneficial Owner for United States Tax Withholding!), or the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization's I-9 and the two acceptable forms of identification?
He sighed and let the W-9 fall on the table. By comparison, fighting the Wraith was much less complicated, he said wistfully to himself. He massaged his temples, which were throbbing. "Okay. I think this isn't going to happen."
"What? You don't want me to work for Colonel Sheppard?" Ronon's eyes grew wide and he stiffened.
"Don't worry," Lorne said quickly, suddenly remembering that Ronon usually carried at least four knives in different locations on his person. "You're still working for Colonel Sheppard. And I'll make sure there are always Cheetos available to pay you with."
"Good." Ronon relaxed, and so did Lorne. "Doritos, too. Don't forget."
"What I meant," Lorne continued, "was that I'm going to explain to Colonel Sheppard and Dr. Weir that completion of a W-9 isn't possible in this case. Besides, how likely is it that the auditors will come all the way to the Pegasus galaxy and find out?"
"Auditors?"
"Yeah," Lorne said, and massaged his temples some more. "Think of Wraith, but in completely human form. With suits and ties and briefcases and big, nasty tax codes. Instead of sucking out your life essence, they go after your brains. Your sanity. Your wallet."
"Holy fuckin' shit," Ronon said in an awed voice, and Lorne was impressed that Ronon was learning Earth-speak-- well, marine-speak-- so quickly, "now that is frightening."
"You don't know the half of it." Lorne grabbed the W-9 and stuffed it in his portfolio. He stood up. "Come on. You and your talk about Cheetos made me hungry. Let's get some lunch."
~END
.