See icon for warning. You think I'm joking.
Happiest of Birthdays to my darling Kat. Um. I hope this is... not too traumatic? :D I love you.
"It's not my fault!"
Grissom only sighed and settled more firmly into the driver's seat of the rental car, squinting a little against the glare of the sun that seemed to be maliciously aiming right into his eyes. It had to be only coincidence that Greg's less-than-optimal grasp of what the agency had sworn were clear, simple directions to get on the rigiht highway had fed them onto what was utterly the wrong road, and one that - worse luck - seemed not only to be heading straight into the setting sun, but didn't have any obvious turning lanes. At all. For about six miles now. Which, considering they were still surrounded by city buildings and the river was glinting off in the distance, seemed rather counter-intuitive. Construction season had a lot to answer for, he decided with a choked growl as they passed Washington, University and Evans, all coned off, flashing lights, marked "CLOSED CLOSED CLOSED".
He sighed and reached over to pat Greg's knee, a habit he'd picked up (from whom he wasn't quite certain) after it had been made sufficiently clear to him that he was going to have to make a bit more of an effort with his interpersonal skills. Well, that or go back to sleeping alone.
He glanced over briefly to see if Greg did look really upset, but it appeared not, given that he was staring raptly out the window at the mountains and not paying a scrap of attention to where they were heading. Which, when he stopped to think about it, probably explained why they were heading southwest and not north like they were meant to in the first place. Not that it really mattered, he figured philosophically, as they didn't have to be anywhere in particular, the conference proper not starting until the following Monday anyway, and so after letting his gaze linger just a fraction of a second on the familiar profile he turned back to the road. They'd only come early in order to steal a short break - what Greg called (gleefully) a 'dirty weekend' and what he had firmly labelled instead as 'time to celebrate Greg's birthday in style' - without all the distractions of Vegas anyway.
Just in time to slam on the brakes, jerking the both of them hard against the seatbelts as they went from an easy eighty to zero just as fast as they could make it. The road had been mostly deserted to start with - obviously the locals all knew about the roadworks from hell - but now they and the few other unfortunate souls on the highway were all at a dead halt. They obviously weren't going to be getting anywhere else fast.
Greg had turned to squint out the windscreen as they shuddered to a stop, and Gil didn't even have to look at him to feel the tension radiating through his frame, the instinctive recoil from the flames giving off thick black smoke mere tens of feet away.
"Grissom," and his voice didn't even shake, and Gil was so damn proud of him for that, reaching for the belt release, absolutely, obviously about to get out there and try to help, "what the hell is that thing?"
* * *
"It's NOT my fault!"
"No, of course not. I said "why don't we get closer and see what that anomalous reading is", not, "Hey, Major, why don't you route us through a previously undiscovered wormhole and, oh, CRASH our ship in the middle of a major city!" Though I can see where the confusion comes in. I mean, patently I was using words with too many syllables. Or something. And that Han Solo routine is not working on me at all!"
"What if I prove that I shot first?"
"I can't believe you're making sexually tilted references to popular culture at a time like this. Wait, what am I saying, of course I can. However, despite the allure of your dubious charms," he ignored the mutter suggesting he'd been singing a different tune last night, soldiering on (heh, so to speak) bravely, "I think we should get out and have a look around. See if you squashed any of the natives or if you did just take out an empty concrete mixer-- hey! I think we're on Earth! Happy birthday to ME. Do you think they still sell those multipacks of Twix bars? God, do you think they'll let us out to take leave?"
"What? Focus, McKay. That can't be right. Are you sure?"
"Do you think any sentient beings in the Pegasus galaxy would be so cruel as to be watching - let alone avertising - American Idol?"
John followed Rodney's gesture through the streams of smoke coming from whatever they'd emergency (not crash, it was a controlled plummet, damnit) landed onto and saw what was, indeed, a billboard advertising American Idol.
"You know, I think this means I owe General O'Neill a bottle of whiskey."
Rodney gave him a puzzled look.
"He sort of suggested this might happen at some point. Though I think he probably would've preferred less obvious destinations. Want to get out and start doing some crowd control?"
"Not especially."
John had to drag Rodney by the upper arm to get him out of the seat, but once he reminded him of the vast array of cheap and available junk food right outside their door (or, rather, back hatch), it became surprisingly easy to get him outside.
Less so once Stargate Command swung into action and turned up on the scene with a veritable army of spin doctors, troops, overly butch army vehicles and one actual doctor, who seemed at a loss that there was no one actually injured, aside from the apparently mortally wounded dignity and temper of a blond whose car had been the only other casualty - the flaming barrel of the concrete mixer had rolled, knocked into what had, John noted with regret, been a rather nice classic car, and while there'd been enough time for the passengers to escape, the Buick was pretty much a smear on the pavement now. Okay, so this obviously wasn't going to end with a promotion.
* * *
"It's not my fault!"
Silence.
"It's not! You cannot- you cannot tell me that I shoulda seen an alien spaceship or whatever crashlanding onto the highway and not incidentally nearly killing the both of us as a hazard to watch out for. This is not normal. And I know they'll tell us it's an experimental military plane, but I know aliens when I see 'em, and that thing is right out of Star Trek. And if some guy with pointy ears comes walking down that hatch I'm gonna kick his ass for this. You know how long it took me to track down that dealer."
Calming down after what had been a fairly satisfying fit of rage, Ray looked over at his partner, finally, reaching out tentatively to touch his hand, take his wrist, pressing warmly against him where they were both leaning up against the barrier walls, panting after their dash out of harms way. Fraser was stood there silently, turning his hat around in circles, fingers clamped down unnaturally hard on the brim as he fidgeted.
"Hey, Frase. Fraser. You okay there?" Ray turned, ignoring the (ha! spaceships! Dewey totally owed him ten bucks, not that he was ever gonna believe this one either, but it was the princer- the principle of the thing) whatever-it-was in front of them to touch his jaw lightly with the back of his hands, frowning at the vaguely hysterical look in his eyes (and that was not like Fraser, not like him at all, that was not the Mountie way, and if this was what they got for leaving Canada, well, then Ray was going to be skipping the good old US of A for a good couple years after they got home again).
Fraser took a deep breath and straightened up, Ray half-held his breath and waited for it, yep, there was the neck crack all right, and just looked at Ray before commenting weakly, "well, Ray, it's just... I really don't think Ray's going to believe that we've managed to blow up yet another of his cars. On his birthday, even. It doesn't quite seem fair, does it?"
"Well, guess we're back to the curling lessons idea, then" Ray replied, "and I can just tell you how much he is not gonna appreciate that one." He shot another look to the side, and carried on speaking. "Well, you gotta admit, though," he began, and he was throwing caution to the winds as he took Fraser's hand just as a remarkably human-looking pair of men walked down from the open hatch of the shuttle, waving conciliatorily at the grumpy looking military crowd who'd been milling around uselessly giving out propaganda and yelling sarcastic things that Ray could hear quite clearly even from a hundred feet away, "at least this time we're not the only partners in trouble here."
Because as he tugged Fraser deeper into the shadows under the overbridge (because obviously they weren't going to be getting out of there for hours, Ray knew military and ass-deep in red tape when he saw it, and he smelled it a mile away in this mess) and they might as well do something fun while they were waiting for the inevitable interview and it-was-just-a-weather-balloon-making-like-the-Hindenburg-and-sorry-about-your-car-Mister-Kowalski, as he pressed Fraser up against the graffitied concrete and let his fingers curl into the serge that Fraser had insisted on wearing anyway (and boy, he bet he was regretting that in the dry summer heat) and licked at his mouth, tasting smoke and tea and that warm, familiar Benton-taste, Ray could see out the corner of his eye the two in the black car a few feet away who seemed to have come to much the same conclusion, an older bearded man crowding a blond guy (who had excellent hair, Ray noted idly, with the part of his brain that wasn't worried about just what Fraser could DO with that mountie knife of his if he was sufficiently motivated) up against the trunk of their SUV, and okay, maybe he didn't have his glasses on, but he was pretty sure the blond guy's hands weren't exactly somewhere fit for polite company, and man, didn't having that spare tire digging into his back have to hurt? And to top it off, (he took a moment to breathe, nuzzling at Fraser's neck, and peeking back at the spaceship (he was only human after all, and hey, if the National Enquirer bought "Elvis Spotted in Raspberry Canes in Inukshuk" God only knew what they'd do for a real alien story), he noted the two guys who appeared to have been piloting it (and again, Ray thought, I've had that hair) sidling away from the yelling-masquerading-as-debrief while exchanging decidedly non-military looks. Kinda like, "hey, maybe we should just get a hotel room already" types of looks. Ray knew that look. He figured on seeing it in the mirror every time he had to work with Fraser these days. He sneaked another peek. They were kinda... hot. Together. The other two weren't kissing any more, but were standing way, way too close for just friends, and Ray had to grin at that. Oh yeah. He knew that one, too.
"Ray," and Fraser was poking him in the ribs. "Focus."
He did.
It was all totally worth it.
"It's not my fault!"
Grissom only sighed and settled more firmly into the driver's seat of the rental car, squinting a little against the glare of the sun that seemed to be maliciously aiming right into his eyes. It had to be only coincidence that Greg's less-than-optimal grasp of what the agency had sworn were clear, simple directions to get on the rigiht highway had fed them onto what was utterly the wrong road, and one that - worse luck - seemed not only to be heading straight into the setting sun, but didn't have any obvious turning lanes. At all. For about six miles now. Which, considering they were still surrounded by city buildings and the river was glinting off in the distance, seemed rather counter-intuitive. Construction season had a lot to answer for, he decided with a choked growl as they passed Washington, University and Evans, all coned off, flashing lights, marked "CLOSED CLOSED CLOSED".
He sighed and reached over to pat Greg's knee, a habit he'd picked up (from whom he wasn't quite certain) after it had been made sufficiently clear to him that he was going to have to make a bit more of an effort with his interpersonal skills. Well, that or go back to sleeping alone.
He glanced over briefly to see if Greg did look really upset, but it appeared not, given that he was staring raptly out the window at the mountains and not paying a scrap of attention to where they were heading. Which, when he stopped to think about it, probably explained why they were heading southwest and not north like they were meant to in the first place. Not that it really mattered, he figured philosophically, as they didn't have to be anywhere in particular, the conference proper not starting until the following Monday anyway, and so after letting his gaze linger just a fraction of a second on the familiar profile he turned back to the road. They'd only come early in order to steal a short break - what Greg called (gleefully) a 'dirty weekend' and what he had firmly labelled instead as 'time to celebrate Greg's birthday in style' - without all the distractions of Vegas anyway.
Just in time to slam on the brakes, jerking the both of them hard against the seatbelts as they went from an easy eighty to zero just as fast as they could make it. The road had been mostly deserted to start with - obviously the locals all knew about the roadworks from hell - but now they and the few other unfortunate souls on the highway were all at a dead halt. They obviously weren't going to be getting anywhere else fast.
Greg had turned to squint out the windscreen as they shuddered to a stop, and Gil didn't even have to look at him to feel the tension radiating through his frame, the instinctive recoil from the flames giving off thick black smoke mere tens of feet away.
"Grissom," and his voice didn't even shake, and Gil was so damn proud of him for that, reaching for the belt release, absolutely, obviously about to get out there and try to help, "what the hell is that thing?"
* * *
"It's NOT my fault!"
"No, of course not. I said "why don't we get closer and see what that anomalous reading is", not, "Hey, Major, why don't you route us through a previously undiscovered wormhole and, oh, CRASH our ship in the middle of a major city!" Though I can see where the confusion comes in. I mean, patently I was using words with too many syllables. Or something. And that Han Solo routine is not working on me at all!"
"What if I prove that I shot first?"
"I can't believe you're making sexually tilted references to popular culture at a time like this. Wait, what am I saying, of course I can. However, despite the allure of your dubious charms," he ignored the mutter suggesting he'd been singing a different tune last night, soldiering on (heh, so to speak) bravely, "I think we should get out and have a look around. See if you squashed any of the natives or if you did just take out an empty concrete mixer-- hey! I think we're on Earth! Happy birthday to ME. Do you think they still sell those multipacks of Twix bars? God, do you think they'll let us out to take leave?"
"What? Focus, McKay. That can't be right. Are you sure?"
"Do you think any sentient beings in the Pegasus galaxy would be so cruel as to be watching - let alone avertising - American Idol?"
John followed Rodney's gesture through the streams of smoke coming from whatever they'd emergency (not crash, it was a controlled plummet, damnit) landed onto and saw what was, indeed, a billboard advertising American Idol.
"You know, I think this means I owe General O'Neill a bottle of whiskey."
Rodney gave him a puzzled look.
"He sort of suggested this might happen at some point. Though I think he probably would've preferred less obvious destinations. Want to get out and start doing some crowd control?"
"Not especially."
John had to drag Rodney by the upper arm to get him out of the seat, but once he reminded him of the vast array of cheap and available junk food right outside their door (or, rather, back hatch), it became surprisingly easy to get him outside.
Less so once Stargate Command swung into action and turned up on the scene with a veritable army of spin doctors, troops, overly butch army vehicles and one actual doctor, who seemed at a loss that there was no one actually injured, aside from the apparently mortally wounded dignity and temper of a blond whose car had been the only other casualty - the flaming barrel of the concrete mixer had rolled, knocked into what had, John noted with regret, been a rather nice classic car, and while there'd been enough time for the passengers to escape, the Buick was pretty much a smear on the pavement now. Okay, so this obviously wasn't going to end with a promotion.
* * *
"It's not my fault!"
Silence.
"It's not! You cannot- you cannot tell me that I shoulda seen an alien spaceship or whatever crashlanding onto the highway and not incidentally nearly killing the both of us as a hazard to watch out for. This is not normal. And I know they'll tell us it's an experimental military plane, but I know aliens when I see 'em, and that thing is right out of Star Trek. And if some guy with pointy ears comes walking down that hatch I'm gonna kick his ass for this. You know how long it took me to track down that dealer."
Calming down after what had been a fairly satisfying fit of rage, Ray looked over at his partner, finally, reaching out tentatively to touch his hand, take his wrist, pressing warmly against him where they were both leaning up against the barrier walls, panting after their dash out of harms way. Fraser was stood there silently, turning his hat around in circles, fingers clamped down unnaturally hard on the brim as he fidgeted.
"Hey, Frase. Fraser. You okay there?" Ray turned, ignoring the (ha! spaceships! Dewey totally owed him ten bucks, not that he was ever gonna believe this one either, but it was the princer- the principle of the thing) whatever-it-was in front of them to touch his jaw lightly with the back of his hands, frowning at the vaguely hysterical look in his eyes (and that was not like Fraser, not like him at all, that was not the Mountie way, and if this was what they got for leaving Canada, well, then Ray was going to be skipping the good old US of A for a good couple years after they got home again).
Fraser took a deep breath and straightened up, Ray half-held his breath and waited for it, yep, there was the neck crack all right, and just looked at Ray before commenting weakly, "well, Ray, it's just... I really don't think Ray's going to believe that we've managed to blow up yet another of his cars. On his birthday, even. It doesn't quite seem fair, does it?"
"Well, guess we're back to the curling lessons idea, then" Ray replied, "and I can just tell you how much he is not gonna appreciate that one." He shot another look to the side, and carried on speaking. "Well, you gotta admit, though," he began, and he was throwing caution to the winds as he took Fraser's hand just as a remarkably human-looking pair of men walked down from the open hatch of the shuttle, waving conciliatorily at the grumpy looking military crowd who'd been milling around uselessly giving out propaganda and yelling sarcastic things that Ray could hear quite clearly even from a hundred feet away, "at least this time we're not the only partners in trouble here."
Because as he tugged Fraser deeper into the shadows under the overbridge (because obviously they weren't going to be getting out of there for hours, Ray knew military and ass-deep in red tape when he saw it, and he smelled it a mile away in this mess) and they might as well do something fun while they were waiting for the inevitable interview and it-was-just-a-weather-balloon-making-like-the-Hindenburg-and-sorry-about-your-car-Mister-Kowalski, as he pressed Fraser up against the graffitied concrete and let his fingers curl into the serge that Fraser had insisted on wearing anyway (and boy, he bet he was regretting that in the dry summer heat) and licked at his mouth, tasting smoke and tea and that warm, familiar Benton-taste, Ray could see out the corner of his eye the two in the black car a few feet away who seemed to have come to much the same conclusion, an older bearded man crowding a blond guy (who had excellent hair, Ray noted idly, with the part of his brain that wasn't worried about just what Fraser could DO with that mountie knife of his if he was sufficiently motivated) up against the trunk of their SUV, and okay, maybe he didn't have his glasses on, but he was pretty sure the blond guy's hands weren't exactly somewhere fit for polite company, and man, didn't having that spare tire digging into his back have to hurt? And to top it off, (he took a moment to breathe, nuzzling at Fraser's neck, and peeking back at the spaceship (he was only human after all, and hey, if the National Enquirer bought "Elvis Spotted in Raspberry Canes in Inukshuk" God only knew what they'd do for a real alien story), he noted the two guys who appeared to have been piloting it (and again, Ray thought, I've had that hair) sidling away from the yelling-masquerading-as-debrief while exchanging decidedly non-military looks. Kinda like, "hey, maybe we should just get a hotel room already" types of looks. Ray knew that look. He figured on seeing it in the mirror every time he had to work with Fraser these days. He sneaked another peek. They were kinda... hot. Together. The other two weren't kissing any more, but were standing way, way too close for just friends, and Ray had to grin at that. Oh yeah. He knew that one, too.
"Ray," and Fraser was poking him in the ribs. "Focus."
He did.
It was all totally worth it.