(no subject)
You know what would be awesome? SGA Girl Scout Cookie fic.
Where what with one thing and another, everybody kind of forgets that it's February back on Earth, except for one person--one of the minor scientists? Simpson?--who has a niece back home, and about a month ago emailed to order as many cookies fit into her cubic meter of Daedalus space on the next run. Or whenever.
So the Daedalus gets there, and they unload three or four cardboard boxes with the Girl Scout logo on the side, and in about four seconds everyone in the entire city knows that someone has cookies and about three seconds after that, people start offering Simpson stuff in trade, and about two seconds after that, people start offering Simpson sexual favors in trade.
And the cookies get delivered to her quarters under heavy guard, which doesn't stop Rodney and a few other people from following them like puppies, all, "You sure a box or two couldn't just . . . fall off the back of the spaceship?"
And then she realizes that what seems like the entire population of Atlantis is crowded in the corridor outside her quarters, and oh, my god, they're scarier than Wraith with all of their coffee and chocolate and weird only-a-luxury-on-Atlantis goods like kiwifruit, so she kind of panics and just starts chucking the boxes down the hall, thinking maybe they'll follow the cookies.
And Zelenka runs away with a box of Samoas ("Hmph!" says Rodney, rolling his eyes. "Samoas") because he's kind of scrappy, and Rodney's hip-checking people for the Thin Mints, and John and Elizabeth are both going for this airborne orange box of Do-Si-Dos, Hail Mary, and John's totally not above taking her down for them, but it turns out Elizabeth's a hair-puller, and from then it kind of degenerates into something like a mosh pit. Only with Trefoils.
So she's all, "That's it! I swear!" and shuts the door and hides, and she and Chuck and maybe the marines who brought the cookies down crack open a box of Tagalongs and sit cross-legged on the floor of her quarters, and watch the melee through the glass panels, giggling peanut-butter-and-chocolate.
Where what with one thing and another, everybody kind of forgets that it's February back on Earth, except for one person--one of the minor scientists? Simpson?--who has a niece back home, and about a month ago emailed to order as many cookies fit into her cubic meter of Daedalus space on the next run. Or whenever.
So the Daedalus gets there, and they unload three or four cardboard boxes with the Girl Scout logo on the side, and in about four seconds everyone in the entire city knows that someone has cookies and about three seconds after that, people start offering Simpson stuff in trade, and about two seconds after that, people start offering Simpson sexual favors in trade.
And the cookies get delivered to her quarters under heavy guard, which doesn't stop Rodney and a few other people from following them like puppies, all, "You sure a box or two couldn't just . . . fall off the back of the spaceship?"
And then she realizes that what seems like the entire population of Atlantis is crowded in the corridor outside her quarters, and oh, my god, they're scarier than Wraith with all of their coffee and chocolate and weird only-a-luxury-on-Atlantis goods like kiwifruit, so she kind of panics and just starts chucking the boxes down the hall, thinking maybe they'll follow the cookies.
And Zelenka runs away with a box of Samoas ("Hmph!" says Rodney, rolling his eyes. "Samoas") because he's kind of scrappy, and Rodney's hip-checking people for the Thin Mints, and John and Elizabeth are both going for this airborne orange box of Do-Si-Dos, Hail Mary, and John's totally not above taking her down for them, but it turns out Elizabeth's a hair-puller, and from then it kind of degenerates into something like a mosh pit. Only with Trefoils.
So she's all, "That's it! I swear!" and shuts the door and hides, and she and Chuck and maybe the marines who brought the cookies down crack open a box of Tagalongs and sit cross-legged on the floor of her quarters, and watch the melee through the glass panels, giggling peanut-butter-and-chocolate.