SGA Request ficlet # 3: Never Anything But
Title: Never Anything But
Prompt: onthecontrary. john/rodney that somehow involves ford and bates; which is like saying, perhaps a drabble set in season one, if you don't mind? because fuck, if people don't love ford and/or bates, what sort of people are they? something funny as opposed to angsty, if at all possible; like, ummm, someone walking in on something bizarre and the misconceptions that might ensue? and if you want to toss in a joke about john acting like a woman, well. we all know how much i love that sort of thing.
Word count: 1114
Summary: “I’m not a woman.”
A/N: dudes, I'm just... sorry.
Never Anything But
After six months in Pegasus, weird happenings stopped feeling so weird. Which might’ve worried John if he thought it’d make any sort of difference, but, really, he figured half-ascended beings were par for the course, as well as the occasional field of sex pollen, drugged-out ritual, donning of ceremonial macramé, command performance of interpretive dances, etc. But.
John was frozen stock-still, gazing into his own hazel eyes, and it was damn creepy. “Rodney,” he drawled out slowly, a warning growl couched with a measure of stunned awe.
“Relax, Major, it’s an interactive holographic simulation,” Rodney said, half his mouth quirked up. “Smile for your mama, Timothy.”
Half of the hologram’s mouth quirked up, and his head tilted at a subtly smug angle, golden-brown curls falling just past his ears, and. “Oh my god,” John choked out. “Oh my fucking god, Rodney, that’s you.”
“Well, technically, he looks more like you.” He frowned. “Although no matter how many times I run this, he always ends up with my hair.” Bending back over his laptop, he hmmm’d and bit his lip and completely ignored John and John’s headlong tumble towards freaking out.
“Rodney-”
“Despite his penchant for voodoo, Carson might actually be helpful in determining some of the genetic specifics in this program.”
Behind him, John could hear Zelenka quietly snickering to himself. He shot a glare over his shoulder and the bastard Czech painted a wide-eyed, innocent expression on his face. Simpson and Ager were studiously not looking at him, but their lips were twitching.
“Rodney, what the hell is going on?”
“Oh come on, you can’t tell me this isn’t fascinating.” Rodney shifted his weight and his face turned sort of dreamy and fond, head cocked. “I never thought much of having children before, you know. Too much work with little reward, and no guarantees. But this device actually calculates a map of intelligence and higher brain functions, and, let’s face it, with my brilliance and your ability to be not entirely stupid all the time, as well as our combined good looks, well.” He beamed at John.
John contemplated hitting him. Hard.
“Only one problem, McKay,” John said tightly, because Rodney had called him mama and there was just no way.
Rodney bounced on his feet, not the least bit chagrined by John’s tone. “Yes?”
“I’m not a woman.”
And, of course, his words echoed around the dead silent room, since everyone but Rodney, who was still humming happily over the readouts and waving a dismissive hand at John, was trying very hard to stay as quiet as possible, because - and John really couldn’t blame them - they probably didn’t want to miss even a second of the show.
“Please,” Rodney said, “male pregnancy is practically the least of our problems. Do we really want Timothy to suffer through all your body fur, yet end up with my receding hairline?”
John pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I’m not having a baby, Rodney,” he said weakly, and Jesus. When had everyone gone insane?
“Shhhhhh,” Rodney hissed, jumping forward and slapping a palm over John’s mouth. “You’re upsetting him!”
And sure enough, the hologram’s hazel eyes were watery and Rodney was right about his eerie resemblance to John - his nose, his forehead, the little points at the tips of his ears - but that wavering pout and ‘buck up, camper’ chin-tilt was all McKay, and shit. He was in so much trouble, because, seeing that, all he wanted to do was gather Timothy up in his arms and tell him he didn’t mean to not have him, but seriously. He wasn’t having a baby, even if regulations and anatomy permitted it. There was just. No way.
John bit Rodney’s hand. Hard.
Rodney yelped and jumped away and glared at him. “You bit me!”
“You’re trying to coerce me into having your baby!” John countered just as viciously, and that’s when he noticed Bates and Ford standing in the doorway to the labs, matching stunned, slack-jawed looks on their faces. Though Bates’ had more of a belligerent, I-knew-it cast, and Ford almost seemed amused. And horrified.
He cleared his throat and nodded. “Lieutenant. Sergeant Bates. What can I do for you?”
Ford recovered first, mouth pulling up into a careful not-smile. “It can wait, sir,” he said.
Bates shot Ford a scowl.
“If you’re arguing about Teyla again, I don’t want to hear it,” John cautioned. Bates was stubborn and surprisingly narrow-minded for someone knee-deep in space exploration, though the guy was scarily fierce about Yahtzee.
John preferred Uno himself.
“No, sir,” Bates said, hands behind his back, but since he didn’t say anything further, John was pretty sure they had been arguing about Teyla.
John sighed and swiped a palm over his forehead. It was just not his day. Or week. Or decade, probably. It was only Monday morning, but he was certain every marine on Atlantis would know about John and Rodney’s hypothetical love child by noon, and since the uproar over Stackhouse and the grass skirt had taken a damn month to settle, John figured he had about three years worth of taunting ahead of him, at least.
When he glanced up again, Timothy was shooting him puppy eyes, and John had to forcibly stop his hand from reaching out and ruffling the little boy’s hair. His sweet, curling hair, and really. Had McKay actually owned those locks once upon a time? He wondered idly what their little girl would look like, maybe with Rodney’s big, blue eyes, and wanted to kill himself.
Just. Thump his head against the wall until his brains oozed out.
Then he realized he was sort of jerking his head, and Ford was staring at him oddly, and Rodney had a narrowed, maybe-I-don’t-want- to-marry-you-and-raise-genius-babies look on his face, and Bates still had that belligerent, I-knew-it cast to his frown, and John gave up.
“Fine,” he muttered under his breath. “Fine.”
He turned to Zelenka - who honestly wasn’t fooling anyone with that bewildered ‘Me, evil? You are joking!’ façade - and growled, “Not one word.” Then he arched his brows at Bates and Ford and forced out, “You don’t really want to know, do you?” and then he grimaced at Rodney and said, “He looks kinda cute with your hair,” and walked out of the labs, pushing past the two marines without looking back.
And he figured that, in the end, everything would be okay, since they were miles away from anything even close to normal, but if Rodney thought there was a chance in hell John’d let anything remotely baby-like come out of his body, he had another think coming. He was so the dad.
Prompt: onthecontrary. john/rodney that somehow involves ford and bates; which is like saying, perhaps a drabble set in season one, if you don't mind? because fuck, if people don't love ford and/or bates, what sort of people are they? something funny as opposed to angsty, if at all possible; like, ummm, someone walking in on something bizarre and the misconceptions that might ensue? and if you want to toss in a joke about john acting like a woman, well. we all know how much i love that sort of thing.
Word count: 1114
Summary: “I’m not a woman.”
A/N: dudes, I'm just... sorry.
Never Anything But
After six months in Pegasus, weird happenings stopped feeling so weird. Which might’ve worried John if he thought it’d make any sort of difference, but, really, he figured half-ascended beings were par for the course, as well as the occasional field of sex pollen, drugged-out ritual, donning of ceremonial macramé, command performance of interpretive dances, etc. But.
John was frozen stock-still, gazing into his own hazel eyes, and it was damn creepy. “Rodney,” he drawled out slowly, a warning growl couched with a measure of stunned awe.
“Relax, Major, it’s an interactive holographic simulation,” Rodney said, half his mouth quirked up. “Smile for your mama, Timothy.”
Half of the hologram’s mouth quirked up, and his head tilted at a subtly smug angle, golden-brown curls falling just past his ears, and. “Oh my god,” John choked out. “Oh my fucking god, Rodney, that’s you.”
“Well, technically, he looks more like you.” He frowned. “Although no matter how many times I run this, he always ends up with my hair.” Bending back over his laptop, he hmmm’d and bit his lip and completely ignored John and John’s headlong tumble towards freaking out.
“Rodney-”
“Despite his penchant for voodoo, Carson might actually be helpful in determining some of the genetic specifics in this program.”
Behind him, John could hear Zelenka quietly snickering to himself. He shot a glare over his shoulder and the bastard Czech painted a wide-eyed, innocent expression on his face. Simpson and Ager were studiously not looking at him, but their lips were twitching.
“Rodney, what the hell is going on?”
“Oh come on, you can’t tell me this isn’t fascinating.” Rodney shifted his weight and his face turned sort of dreamy and fond, head cocked. “I never thought much of having children before, you know. Too much work with little reward, and no guarantees. But this device actually calculates a map of intelligence and higher brain functions, and, let’s face it, with my brilliance and your ability to be not entirely stupid all the time, as well as our combined good looks, well.” He beamed at John.
John contemplated hitting him. Hard.
“Only one problem, McKay,” John said tightly, because Rodney had called him mama and there was just no way.
Rodney bounced on his feet, not the least bit chagrined by John’s tone. “Yes?”
“I’m not a woman.”
And, of course, his words echoed around the dead silent room, since everyone but Rodney, who was still humming happily over the readouts and waving a dismissive hand at John, was trying very hard to stay as quiet as possible, because - and John really couldn’t blame them - they probably didn’t want to miss even a second of the show.
“Please,” Rodney said, “male pregnancy is practically the least of our problems. Do we really want Timothy to suffer through all your body fur, yet end up with my receding hairline?”
John pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I’m not having a baby, Rodney,” he said weakly, and Jesus. When had everyone gone insane?
“Shhhhhh,” Rodney hissed, jumping forward and slapping a palm over John’s mouth. “You’re upsetting him!”
And sure enough, the hologram’s hazel eyes were watery and Rodney was right about his eerie resemblance to John - his nose, his forehead, the little points at the tips of his ears - but that wavering pout and ‘buck up, camper’ chin-tilt was all McKay, and shit. He was in so much trouble, because, seeing that, all he wanted to do was gather Timothy up in his arms and tell him he didn’t mean to not have him, but seriously. He wasn’t having a baby, even if regulations and anatomy permitted it. There was just. No way.
John bit Rodney’s hand. Hard.
Rodney yelped and jumped away and glared at him. “You bit me!”
“You’re trying to coerce me into having your baby!” John countered just as viciously, and that’s when he noticed Bates and Ford standing in the doorway to the labs, matching stunned, slack-jawed looks on their faces. Though Bates’ had more of a belligerent, I-knew-it cast, and Ford almost seemed amused. And horrified.
He cleared his throat and nodded. “Lieutenant. Sergeant Bates. What can I do for you?”
Ford recovered first, mouth pulling up into a careful not-smile. “It can wait, sir,” he said.
Bates shot Ford a scowl.
“If you’re arguing about Teyla again, I don’t want to hear it,” John cautioned. Bates was stubborn and surprisingly narrow-minded for someone knee-deep in space exploration, though the guy was scarily fierce about Yahtzee.
John preferred Uno himself.
“No, sir,” Bates said, hands behind his back, but since he didn’t say anything further, John was pretty sure they had been arguing about Teyla.
John sighed and swiped a palm over his forehead. It was just not his day. Or week. Or decade, probably. It was only Monday morning, but he was certain every marine on Atlantis would know about John and Rodney’s hypothetical love child by noon, and since the uproar over Stackhouse and the grass skirt had taken a damn month to settle, John figured he had about three years worth of taunting ahead of him, at least.
When he glanced up again, Timothy was shooting him puppy eyes, and John had to forcibly stop his hand from reaching out and ruffling the little boy’s hair. His sweet, curling hair, and really. Had McKay actually owned those locks once upon a time? He wondered idly what their little girl would look like, maybe with Rodney’s big, blue eyes, and wanted to kill himself.
Just. Thump his head against the wall until his brains oozed out.
Then he realized he was sort of jerking his head, and Ford was staring at him oddly, and Rodney had a narrowed, maybe-I-don’t-want- to-marry-you-and-raise-genius-babies look on his face, and Bates still had that belligerent, I-knew-it cast to his frown, and John gave up.
“Fine,” he muttered under his breath. “Fine.”
He turned to Zelenka - who honestly wasn’t fooling anyone with that bewildered ‘Me, evil? You are joking!’ façade - and growled, “Not one word.” Then he arched his brows at Bates and Ford and forced out, “You don’t really want to know, do you?” and then he grimaced at Rodney and said, “He looks kinda cute with your hair,” and walked out of the labs, pushing past the two marines without looking back.
And he figured that, in the end, everything would be okay, since they were miles away from anything even close to normal, but if Rodney thought there was a chance in hell John’d let anything remotely baby-like come out of his body, he had another think coming. He was so the dad.