(no subject)
Okay, so, I'm nearly caught up with LJ for today, at least, except I'm at the point where I have five tabs left, just FIVE and yet I can't bring myself to read them/comment/close them. I just-- argh. This is why I am forever behind. And I am tired and frustrated because I still can't talk and, honestly, there are few things in this world which can drive me from zero to crazy faster than that, which I realise is pathetic and yet, I? Do not care. Bah. So, instead, having spent a most joyous and productive hour having squeefits with katrin (you only wish you had a transcript** - we crossed-over until it CHAFED. and then we crossed-over some more because SGA/Vorkosigan Saga is a THING OF BEAUTY), I am going to continue to not write up anything I've been writing up in my head all week at work and will instead try to type up the OT4-ish team-fic snippet I wrote on the plane last Tuesday. Inspired by (hopefully not too much!) and for 30toseoul, because, well, she is made of awesome.
**Okay, this is me, there will TOTALLY be a transcript. If only for Chris and Joan. But I should do this first because my To Do list has gone into an exponential expansion mode and there is no asymptote.
It's short, it might be schmoopy, but, well, I reread it at lunch today (because I was trying to listen to podfic and then I got paranoid because I know how much sound travels from iPod earbuds and I do NOT want to have to explain to all the guys I work with why there is a chick talking about cocks, plural, on my mp3 player) and I didn't hate it, so, um? (I don't understand why I am so reluctant to post SGA. God knows I write enough of it, even if it's mostly In My Head. I just... eek?) Also, just for the sake of my own remembrance - I wrote the first half in my head trying to sleep the night before while sulfur dioxide molecules wandered around my head and I tried to remember their geometry. I mean. I'm just saying.
...I also spent half my lunchbreak trying to draw reindeer pulling a puddlejumper so, well, I think we can all conclude the extent to which I have totally cracked, because I don't draw. (For good reason.)
Rodney sleeps half-clothed, thin old shirt rucked up about his armpits, legs splayed and vulnerable (a permission that John never quite feels like accepting, an unconscious invitation which rides a little too close to the bone), and despite all he complains about the chill (and the drafts, and the way that Ronon never, ever shuts the damn window) the blanket on his side never seems to make it past the backs of his knees. It's a far cry from the way he huddles inside his sleeping bag offworld, and the contrast strikes every time John sees it, sincerity and trust communicated in silence.
Ronon sleeps still, calmly, moves in his sleep less than anyone else John's ever met (and it's not that he's slept with so many people, despite what Rodney snarks, it's just after years upon years of sharing dorms you get used to a certain amount of fidgeting and noise, conscious or not). Ronon goes straight from alert readiness to deep unconsciousness, shoulders shifting as his chest rises and falls. He sleeps on his stomach (Teyla says he snores otherwise, John does not want to know), hugging the wall where there is one; he likes to have something solid at his back. Otherwise, he likes to be on the very edge of the bed - he says it's more comfortable and he's less likely to squash McKay ("oh, and what about Teyla, then?" "she'd move."), but they all know it's because he needs to be able to protect his team.
In this, as in so many other things, Teyla is pure feline, which makes it all the less surprising how well she and Rodney get on (and off) as their very own twosome. She's alert at the slightest breath of sound, light on her feet at any noise which doesn't belong; the legacy of a lifetime under the Wraith. It also means unless she's utterly worn out, anything that goes on with the four of them in bed has her as witness, at the very least. Not that John has a problem with that.
He's none too sure just how he sleeps himself, of course, being uniquely in a position where he's unable to observe. When he does ask, awkward with it, Ronon just grins at him - the man is all teeth sometimes, and not always when you'd expect, which is, well, hot, actually, and John wonders when he turned into such a tramp - and replies "you wake up fast enough." Which is praise from Ronon, sure, but not particularly helpful.
Teyla simply gives him one of her trademarked enigmatic smiles and doesn't precisely answer.
He and Rodney have privately decided that she actually has a quota for that smile, and if she doesn't meet it (keep them in line with it) then Elizabeth or someone is going to cut her off from the good chocolate. Either that or they've been watching too many of Radek's X Files avis, especially given that in Pegasus they should have conspiracy theories aplenty to tide them over without inventing silly domestic ones. The plotting is fun, though, even though it usually disintegrates into "too slow!" and "diversionary tactics, McKay!" and moaning and the heel of Teyla's palm sweeping across a vulnerable side, down the smooth line of bicep and forearm. John has solemnly promised that one day he will see through her dastardly plans, but that grand statement had fizzled up into nothingness when Teyla and Ronon both had stopped and given him an identical eyebrow raise (which, creepy) and waited patiently for Rodney to explain the adjective, and frankly, there was only so much etymological discussion John's dick could take before it killed the mood just a little.
When he asks Rodney (and not in precisely those words, because they talk about these things in wholly different ways; sometimes they have entire conversations in eyebrow themselves nowadays), he merely gets the twitch which telegraphs "you moron", and "no, really, why am I sleeping with someone who is asking me this?" and a punch to the shoulder (Rodney is learning lots of things these days, and also ow) before he leans in to make a quiet-voiced suggestion (breath rippling over John's neck and ear) of something utterly filthy to occupy his mind with instead. John spreads his hands and gives him the charming grin which never really works on Rodney these days (had it ever?) or maybe it's always worked, because these days he ends more of his evenings tangled intimately around that crooked mouth than not, and maybe McKay just always knows what he wants and isn't it just lucky for all of them that they're so often of like mind.
[it feels like there should be more after this, but given my notebook then turns into straighter-McShep (which ends before the Good Bits), I'm really none too sure where it wanders after that. so, for the time being: finis.]
**Okay, this is me, there will TOTALLY be a transcript. If only for Chris and Joan. But I should do this first because my To Do list has gone into an exponential expansion mode and there is no asymptote.
It's short, it might be schmoopy, but, well, I reread it at lunch today (because I was trying to listen to podfic and then I got paranoid because I know how much sound travels from iPod earbuds and I do NOT want to have to explain to all the guys I work with why there is a chick talking about cocks, plural, on my mp3 player) and I didn't hate it, so, um? (I don't understand why I am so reluctant to post SGA. God knows I write enough of it, even if it's mostly In My Head. I just... eek?) Also, just for the sake of my own remembrance - I wrote the first half in my head trying to sleep the night before while sulfur dioxide molecules wandered around my head and I tried to remember their geometry. I mean. I'm just saying.
...I also spent half my lunchbreak trying to draw reindeer pulling a puddlejumper so, well, I think we can all conclude the extent to which I have totally cracked, because I don't draw. (For good reason.)
Rodney sleeps half-clothed, thin old shirt rucked up about his armpits, legs splayed and vulnerable (a permission that John never quite feels like accepting, an unconscious invitation which rides a little too close to the bone), and despite all he complains about the chill (and the drafts, and the way that Ronon never, ever shuts the damn window) the blanket on his side never seems to make it past the backs of his knees. It's a far cry from the way he huddles inside his sleeping bag offworld, and the contrast strikes every time John sees it, sincerity and trust communicated in silence.
Ronon sleeps still, calmly, moves in his sleep less than anyone else John's ever met (and it's not that he's slept with so many people, despite what Rodney snarks, it's just after years upon years of sharing dorms you get used to a certain amount of fidgeting and noise, conscious or not). Ronon goes straight from alert readiness to deep unconsciousness, shoulders shifting as his chest rises and falls. He sleeps on his stomach (Teyla says he snores otherwise, John does not want to know), hugging the wall where there is one; he likes to have something solid at his back. Otherwise, he likes to be on the very edge of the bed - he says it's more comfortable and he's less likely to squash McKay ("oh, and what about Teyla, then?" "she'd move."), but they all know it's because he needs to be able to protect his team.
In this, as in so many other things, Teyla is pure feline, which makes it all the less surprising how well she and Rodney get on (and off) as their very own twosome. She's alert at the slightest breath of sound, light on her feet at any noise which doesn't belong; the legacy of a lifetime under the Wraith. It also means unless she's utterly worn out, anything that goes on with the four of them in bed has her as witness, at the very least. Not that John has a problem with that.
He's none too sure just how he sleeps himself, of course, being uniquely in a position where he's unable to observe. When he does ask, awkward with it, Ronon just grins at him - the man is all teeth sometimes, and not always when you'd expect, which is, well, hot, actually, and John wonders when he turned into such a tramp - and replies "you wake up fast enough." Which is praise from Ronon, sure, but not particularly helpful.
Teyla simply gives him one of her trademarked enigmatic smiles and doesn't precisely answer.
He and Rodney have privately decided that she actually has a quota for that smile, and if she doesn't meet it (keep them in line with it) then Elizabeth or someone is going to cut her off from the good chocolate. Either that or they've been watching too many of Radek's X Files avis, especially given that in Pegasus they should have conspiracy theories aplenty to tide them over without inventing silly domestic ones. The plotting is fun, though, even though it usually disintegrates into "too slow!" and "diversionary tactics, McKay!" and moaning and the heel of Teyla's palm sweeping across a vulnerable side, down the smooth line of bicep and forearm. John has solemnly promised that one day he will see through her dastardly plans, but that grand statement had fizzled up into nothingness when Teyla and Ronon both had stopped and given him an identical eyebrow raise (which, creepy) and waited patiently for Rodney to explain the adjective, and frankly, there was only so much etymological discussion John's dick could take before it killed the mood just a little.
When he asks Rodney (and not in precisely those words, because they talk about these things in wholly different ways; sometimes they have entire conversations in eyebrow themselves nowadays), he merely gets the twitch which telegraphs "you moron", and "no, really, why am I sleeping with someone who is asking me this?" and a punch to the shoulder (Rodney is learning lots of things these days, and also ow) before he leans in to make a quiet-voiced suggestion (breath rippling over John's neck and ear) of something utterly filthy to occupy his mind with instead. John spreads his hands and gives him the charming grin which never really works on Rodney these days (had it ever?) or maybe it's always worked, because these days he ends more of his evenings tangled intimately around that crooked mouth than not, and maybe McKay just always knows what he wants and isn't it just lucky for all of them that they're so often of like mind.
[it feels like there should be more after this, but given my notebook then turns into straighter-McShep (which ends before the Good Bits), I'm really none too sure where it wanders after that. so, for the time being: finis.]