Menace 2 Society [Rated C for Crack]
Menace to Society: Set during any time period when Rodney and the gang are on Earth. Possible The Return era. John's away and Rodney finds out a life of crime really isn't for him even though he's really good at it. ~1600 words. Crack.
Author's Note: So this little thing came about during a skype conversation with popkin16 after she decided Rodney would probably be an awesome brawler, what with his amazing arms. I agreed and decided that a fic should be written. This is the outcome and for that, I am deeply, deeply sorry! popkin16 , this is for you! Just don't hold it against me! :D
---
The alcohol stopped burning several shots ago. Now, it slides down as easily as a glass of water (hold the lemon) so he downs the cheap whiskey and motions for another.
He thinks the bartender is smirking as he slides the glass across the counter, so Rodney salutes him sloppily with two fingers. "To," he hiccups and burps. Half the liquid sloshes out of the tiny glass as he raises it in thanks. "T'you. For keepin' the good stuff comin'," he says. Or at least that's what he tries to say but it's possible he's speaking Ancient.
He swallows and drops the glass back to the smooth bar top and leans over, pressing his face against the cool wood. It feels good and he wants to close his eyes and just sleep.
It's not like anyone would miss him anyway.
He sighs and rubs his cheek against it and then he sighs some more. This has turned out to be a spectacularly shitty day.
"Ca'I get one more?" Rodney asks. He wiggles a single finger in the bartender's direction, but he will not be swayed.
"Sorry buddy. I think you've had enough."
It sounds familiar and Rodney remembers even though he came here to forget. "Says who?" He asks, drawing himself up to full height. It's most likely ineffective because he can feel himself swaying on his bar stool. He'll be lucky if he doesn't topple right over into the floor like Humpty Dumpty and that's enough to set him off in a fit of manly giggles.
He mumbles the nursery rhyme under his breath--at least, he means to--as he stumbles to his feet and wrestles his wallet out of his back pocket. His fingers, normally so deft and skilled, feel fat and totally useless as he opens the flap and wrestles a wad of money out. It isn't easy but eventually he's successful. He tosses a couple tens down on the counter.
"S'been real, m'man!" He calls to the bartender and sweeps his jacket gracefully off the back of the stool. Well, he thinks he sweeps it gracefully off the back of the stool except he's not graceful even under the best of circumstances and drunk out of his mind doesn't really count. He almost falls, but he compensates and manages to keep himself upright.
He's the fucking man.
"Smooth, McKay," he congratulates himself and saunters--stumbles--towards the exit.
Rodney has one hand on the doorknob when the sound of raised voices catches his attention. He whirls around, but when he stops, the room keeps going and it takes a minute until it stops spinning until for him to see the cause of the argument.
A guy who reminds him vaguely of Ronon save for the awesome hair, growling a woman who's smaller than Keller. Normally, he would back out quickly before the giant spots him because this is more John's forte than his, but fortified by several shots of cheap whiskey, Rodney puffs up his chest and opens his mouth before his brain catches up.
"Hey!"
The woman shrinks back, seemingly trying to disappear under the table as the guy turns, narrowing his eyes at Rodney.
"The fuck is your problem?" The guy slurs.
Rodney hasn't thought this far ahead but he tries for a defiant slouch and glares. "You're m'problem! Maybe you should jus'... jus' shut up and yell at someone your own size." Had John, Ronon, Teyla or even Zelenka been around, they would have reminded Rodney to take his own advice because how many times had he yelled at poor old Miko over the years?
The guy laughs and rounds the table, but Rodney doesn't falter. If anything, he stands--tries to--a little straighter and rounds his broad shoulders. There's a very teeny tiny part of his brain, the part that's going to be pissed at him for potentially damaging valuable brain cells when he's not so drunk, that screams at him to run, but he just holds his ground.
"You wanna say that to my face?" The guy asks, so close that Rodney can smell what he had for dinner. It's almost enough to make him throw up.
"I said you should jus' shut up."
The guy reaches out and shoves Rodney. The extra force is enough to knock him off his balance and he tumbles backwards into the coat rack. He's vaguely aware of the bartender yelling over to them, but he's annoyed now in a way that has nothing to do with idiot lab technicians.
It's a struggle to get to his feet but he manages and this time when the guy swings, Rodney has enough foresight to duck.
He'll thank Ronon later for teaching him to dodge the obvious blows and he'll thank Teyla for teaching him how to strike. His fist connects with the guy's nose and Rodney can feel the satisfying crunch under his fingers.
"I did it!" He says, mildly surprised at actually landing a hit. The excitement doesn't last long though because he's only served to piss the guy off even more and this time when he swings, he doesn't miss.
Rodney takes a couple of punches, but they're nothing compared to the beating he would have received before Atlantis, before Ronon and Teyla, before John. They've taught him to use his bulk, his broad shoulders and big hands, to his advantage and while he doesn't escape completely unscathed, he's pleased to see that the other guy is no better off.
Of course, he has exactly three point five seconds to celebrate before his arms are shoved behind his back roughly and held in place by the cool metal of handcuffs.
A bar fight and an arrest all in one night? John would be so proud.
And it's with that thought that Rodney doubles over and empties the contents of his stomach on the floor.
---
There's nothing remotely exciting about being arrested, Rodney thinks mournfully as he shifts in the cracked plastic chair. He doesn't even get to go to real jail. Instead, he's being held in the processing room at the local police department, staring dumbly at the back of the officer's head. He's slouched down in a computer chair, playing Solitaire.
Rodney wonders what it means about local law enforcement when they can't even win at that.
He wisely keeps this thought to himself.
"Don' I get a phone call?" He asks. His head is starting to ache and while he's sure he's already thrown up everything he's eaten in the last year and a half, he still feels like he's going to be sick. He really just wants Carter or hell, even Daniel Jackson to come get him so he can go home and sleep for a month.
Or at least until John comes back.
"Nope," the officer drawls and that's the end of that.
Well okay then.
He slumps miserably in his seat, handcuffs clinking the metal rail he's attached to. He really just wants to go home. Not home home but Atlantis home where everything was good and John wasn't being stupid and gallivanting off to another planet in the Milky Way with his brand new team. Without Rodney.
Apparently, alcohol was counterproductive because while it was supposed to make him forget, it's all he can think about.
He's pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a quiet click and when the door opens up, Rodney can hardly believe his eyes.
"Hey buddy," John greets, smiling lazily like Rodney isn't handcuffed for a reason that doesn't involve kinky sex.
"What are you doin' here?"
"Bailing you out," John says easily. "And really? A bar fight? What were you thinking?"
"I was amazing," Rodney says, smiling despite himself. He goes to stand and then remembers he can't exactly go anywhere, so he flops down into the chair and sighs loudly. "John?"
"Yeah buddy?"
"Can we go home now?"
John just grins.
---
By the time they make it to Rodney's apartment, Rodney's ready to seriously pass out. He's exhausted and his face is hurting from where that Neanderthal's fist connected with it, but mostly, he's just so happy John is back that he wants nothing more than to get upstairs, get naked and sleep for a month.
This time with John.
It's a chore to get out of the car and up the stairs, but when John finally shoves the apartment door open, Rodney stumbles in gratefully.
"You left me," he accuses halfheartedly as he pulls his shirt over his head with clumsy hands, throwing it onto the back of the couch. "Big jerk. S'your fault, y'know."
"It's my fault you got arrested?"
"Yes," Rodney sighs.
John doesn't argue; he grabs the shirt from the couch and then steers Rodney into the bedroom and Rodney is positive that he's stifling a laugh when he face plants onto the bed.
"Turned me into a hardened crim'nal. S'all your fault," he mutters, muffled by the mattress.
"A hardened criminal, huh?"
"You make me crazy."
"I feel the same way about you," John says fondly.
The bed dips under John's weight and a second later, Rodney finds himself cuddled up against John's side. He presses his face against John's neck and breathes in his scent.
"Don't go 'way anymore, 'kay?"
"I'm not going anywhere," John promises. "Especially after this. Who knew a few hours apart would send you spiraling downward into a life of crime?"
Rodney just nods solemnly and snuffles quietly against John's neck.
"'M such a menace to society," Rodney mutters.
John laughs his horrible donkey-laugh and Rodney feels fond lips against the top of his head.
"You're a menace alright. Get some sleep, McKay. I have a feeling you're gonna have one hell of a hangover in the morning."
Rodney's already fast asleep.
Author's Note: So this little thing came about during a skype conversation with popkin16 after she decided Rodney would probably be an awesome brawler, what with his amazing arms. I agreed and decided that a fic should be written. This is the outcome and for that, I am deeply, deeply sorry! popkin16 , this is for you! Just don't hold it against me! :D
---
The alcohol stopped burning several shots ago. Now, it slides down as easily as a glass of water (hold the lemon) so he downs the cheap whiskey and motions for another.
He thinks the bartender is smirking as he slides the glass across the counter, so Rodney salutes him sloppily with two fingers. "To," he hiccups and burps. Half the liquid sloshes out of the tiny glass as he raises it in thanks. "T'you. For keepin' the good stuff comin'," he says. Or at least that's what he tries to say but it's possible he's speaking Ancient.
He swallows and drops the glass back to the smooth bar top and leans over, pressing his face against the cool wood. It feels good and he wants to close his eyes and just sleep.
It's not like anyone would miss him anyway.
He sighs and rubs his cheek against it and then he sighs some more. This has turned out to be a spectacularly shitty day.
"Ca'I get one more?" Rodney asks. He wiggles a single finger in the bartender's direction, but he will not be swayed.
"Sorry buddy. I think you've had enough."
It sounds familiar and Rodney remembers even though he came here to forget. "Says who?" He asks, drawing himself up to full height. It's most likely ineffective because he can feel himself swaying on his bar stool. He'll be lucky if he doesn't topple right over into the floor like Humpty Dumpty and that's enough to set him off in a fit of manly giggles.
He mumbles the nursery rhyme under his breath--at least, he means to--as he stumbles to his feet and wrestles his wallet out of his back pocket. His fingers, normally so deft and skilled, feel fat and totally useless as he opens the flap and wrestles a wad of money out. It isn't easy but eventually he's successful. He tosses a couple tens down on the counter.
"S'been real, m'man!" He calls to the bartender and sweeps his jacket gracefully off the back of the stool. Well, he thinks he sweeps it gracefully off the back of the stool except he's not graceful even under the best of circumstances and drunk out of his mind doesn't really count. He almost falls, but he compensates and manages to keep himself upright.
He's the fucking man.
"Smooth, McKay," he congratulates himself and saunters--stumbles--towards the exit.
Rodney has one hand on the doorknob when the sound of raised voices catches his attention. He whirls around, but when he stops, the room keeps going and it takes a minute until it stops spinning until for him to see the cause of the argument.
A guy who reminds him vaguely of Ronon save for the awesome hair, growling a woman who's smaller than Keller. Normally, he would back out quickly before the giant spots him because this is more John's forte than his, but fortified by several shots of cheap whiskey, Rodney puffs up his chest and opens his mouth before his brain catches up.
"Hey!"
The woman shrinks back, seemingly trying to disappear under the table as the guy turns, narrowing his eyes at Rodney.
"The fuck is your problem?" The guy slurs.
Rodney hasn't thought this far ahead but he tries for a defiant slouch and glares. "You're m'problem! Maybe you should jus'... jus' shut up and yell at someone your own size." Had John, Ronon, Teyla or even Zelenka been around, they would have reminded Rodney to take his own advice because how many times had he yelled at poor old Miko over the years?
The guy laughs and rounds the table, but Rodney doesn't falter. If anything, he stands--tries to--a little straighter and rounds his broad shoulders. There's a very teeny tiny part of his brain, the part that's going to be pissed at him for potentially damaging valuable brain cells when he's not so drunk, that screams at him to run, but he just holds his ground.
"You wanna say that to my face?" The guy asks, so close that Rodney can smell what he had for dinner. It's almost enough to make him throw up.
"I said you should jus' shut up."
The guy reaches out and shoves Rodney. The extra force is enough to knock him off his balance and he tumbles backwards into the coat rack. He's vaguely aware of the bartender yelling over to them, but he's annoyed now in a way that has nothing to do with idiot lab technicians.
It's a struggle to get to his feet but he manages and this time when the guy swings, Rodney has enough foresight to duck.
He'll thank Ronon later for teaching him to dodge the obvious blows and he'll thank Teyla for teaching him how to strike. His fist connects with the guy's nose and Rodney can feel the satisfying crunch under his fingers.
"I did it!" He says, mildly surprised at actually landing a hit. The excitement doesn't last long though because he's only served to piss the guy off even more and this time when he swings, he doesn't miss.
Rodney takes a couple of punches, but they're nothing compared to the beating he would have received before Atlantis, before Ronon and Teyla, before John. They've taught him to use his bulk, his broad shoulders and big hands, to his advantage and while he doesn't escape completely unscathed, he's pleased to see that the other guy is no better off.
Of course, he has exactly three point five seconds to celebrate before his arms are shoved behind his back roughly and held in place by the cool metal of handcuffs.
A bar fight and an arrest all in one night? John would be so proud.
And it's with that thought that Rodney doubles over and empties the contents of his stomach on the floor.
---
There's nothing remotely exciting about being arrested, Rodney thinks mournfully as he shifts in the cracked plastic chair. He doesn't even get to go to real jail. Instead, he's being held in the processing room at the local police department, staring dumbly at the back of the officer's head. He's slouched down in a computer chair, playing Solitaire.
Rodney wonders what it means about local law enforcement when they can't even win at that.
He wisely keeps this thought to himself.
"Don' I get a phone call?" He asks. His head is starting to ache and while he's sure he's already thrown up everything he's eaten in the last year and a half, he still feels like he's going to be sick. He really just wants Carter or hell, even Daniel Jackson to come get him so he can go home and sleep for a month.
Or at least until John comes back.
"Nope," the officer drawls and that's the end of that.
Well okay then.
He slumps miserably in his seat, handcuffs clinking the metal rail he's attached to. He really just wants to go home. Not home home but Atlantis home where everything was good and John wasn't being stupid and gallivanting off to another planet in the Milky Way with his brand new team. Without Rodney.
Apparently, alcohol was counterproductive because while it was supposed to make him forget, it's all he can think about.
He's pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a quiet click and when the door opens up, Rodney can hardly believe his eyes.
"Hey buddy," John greets, smiling lazily like Rodney isn't handcuffed for a reason that doesn't involve kinky sex.
"What are you doin' here?"
"Bailing you out," John says easily. "And really? A bar fight? What were you thinking?"
"I was amazing," Rodney says, smiling despite himself. He goes to stand and then remembers he can't exactly go anywhere, so he flops down into the chair and sighs loudly. "John?"
"Yeah buddy?"
"Can we go home now?"
John just grins.
---
By the time they make it to Rodney's apartment, Rodney's ready to seriously pass out. He's exhausted and his face is hurting from where that Neanderthal's fist connected with it, but mostly, he's just so happy John is back that he wants nothing more than to get upstairs, get naked and sleep for a month.
This time with John.
It's a chore to get out of the car and up the stairs, but when John finally shoves the apartment door open, Rodney stumbles in gratefully.
"You left me," he accuses halfheartedly as he pulls his shirt over his head with clumsy hands, throwing it onto the back of the couch. "Big jerk. S'your fault, y'know."
"It's my fault you got arrested?"
"Yes," Rodney sighs.
John doesn't argue; he grabs the shirt from the couch and then steers Rodney into the bedroom and Rodney is positive that he's stifling a laugh when he face plants onto the bed.
"Turned me into a hardened crim'nal. S'all your fault," he mutters, muffled by the mattress.
"A hardened criminal, huh?"
"You make me crazy."
"I feel the same way about you," John says fondly.
The bed dips under John's weight and a second later, Rodney finds himself cuddled up against John's side. He presses his face against John's neck and breathes in his scent.
"Don't go 'way anymore, 'kay?"
"I'm not going anywhere," John promises. "Especially after this. Who knew a few hours apart would send you spiraling downward into a life of crime?"
Rodney just nods solemnly and snuffles quietly against John's neck.
"'M such a menace to society," Rodney mutters.
John laughs his horrible donkey-laugh and Rodney feels fond lips against the top of his head.
"You're a menace alright. Get some sleep, McKay. I have a feeling you're gonna have one hell of a hangover in the morning."
Rodney's already fast asleep.