Placeholders for atlantisbasics
None of these have been edited by eyes other than my own due to lack of time. I hope you enjoy regardless.
Recipient: stop
Title: Coddled, Scrambled, Fried, or Dyed
Author: Pouncer
Rating: PG
Category: gen
Spoilers: general for season one
Summary: Ticket for one to surreality theater, right this way.
Coddled, Scrambled, Fried, or Dyed
By Pouncer
"Major," Ford yelped, and then he was gone.
Sheppard turned from where he'd been observing McKay's cranky mutterings in a long-deserted lab and cocked his head. "Huh," he said.
Teyla rose from her kneeling posture on the floor, wiping her hands on her pants. "Major Sheppard?"
"Yeah?" His eyebrows furrowed.
"Where is Lieutenant Ford?" Her curiosity seemed mild.
"I don't know. And I don't really care." Sheppard giggled. He should feel shocked, he knew, or concerned, but it was really kind of funny. The Disappearing Lieutenant, see him now or lose your chance!
McKay thumped the terminal he was attempting to access and grumbled something under his breath. "Why couldn't they have left an instruction manual?" he said, plaintively, to the ceiling.
"What fun would that be, Rodney?" His drawl was getting more pronounced and Sheppard had to watch that, had to stay in charge. Him in charge. Hee.
There went another giggle.
McKay turned and his eyes narrowed. "Hey. Where did Ford go?"
Sheppard shrugged, and draped himself over a countertop. "Do you like to play videogames, Rodney? I hear some of the Marines snuck a Playstation through the wormhole." A smile crept over his face. "They might have flight simulators!" And oh, wouldn't that be cool. Not as cool as taking an Apache out to train, but nifty as the puddlejumpers were, Sheppard sometimes longed for the swoopy joy of a dive in flight, a jig, a jag, firing off missiles to hit targets one, two, three.
Woah.
"Okay," Sheppard said. "Something is wrong."
"Do you think so?" McKay asked, observing his hand with careful attention. "Hey, look at the way the tendons move!" He wiggled his fingers and poked at the back of his hand.
Teyla turned in circles, swishing her arms back and forth. She hummed as she moved, a tuneful melody permeating the air and turning Sheppard's bones to elastic.
"We dance when we sow," she informed Sheppard solemnly. "It is a sacred duty to the Ancestors, beseeching their protection until the crops mature." She balanced on one booted foot, pointed the other foot and extended her leg parallel to the floor. Her knee hinged, her toes moved close to her other knee, and she pirouetted, laughing.
"This is easier than just-plowed dirt," she cried, and threw herself forward to bounce off a wall.
Things got stranger then.
* * *
Shortly after the lights cut off, Zelenka's head poked through doors that had been forced to open enough to admit him.
Sheppard observed from his perch on the countertop.
Zelenka muttered something in Czech, pushed his glasses further up his nose, and shone a flashlight around. Rodney snored on the floor, curled up in a little ball. Teyla was braiding her hair into a kajillion little braids, sucking on the end of one strand she'd finished.
"Hey there," Sheppard said, and waved his hand in welcome. "It's fun here."
Dr. Weir's voice rang through the door, "Are they okay?"
"No clue," Zelenka shrugged and Sheppard giggled again.
A clucking conversation in the corridor outside, birds pecking over grain, and Sheppard could really go for some scrambled eggs. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, after all.
But wait! They wanted to play tag! Sheppard would not be IT, he wouldn't.
* * *
"Really, Rodney," Weir said, piercing icicles into Sheppard's skull, "don't you know better than to activate unknown Ancient technology? After everything -"
Rodney interrupted her with a moan. "Please. Not so loud," he breathed. Sheppard agreed silently. Quiet. Quiet would be good. He was careful to keep his eyes closed, because the red glow outside his eyelids was already too bright.
"Elizabeth dear," Dr. Beckett said, "Maybe they should rest a while longer?" The sound of footsteps retreating, and Sheppard caught whispers about sonic manipulation and irresponsible and crazy Ancients and Thank God Ford left when he did.
Sheppard sank back into sleep and thought about breakfast.
Notes: A placeholder for stop.
Recipient: sdraevn
Title: Waiting for Hermiod
Author: Pouncer
Rating: PG-13
Category: slash
Spoilers: general for season two
Summary: Send in the clones.
Waiting for Hermiod
By Pouncer
"Are you certain he's identical?" Rodney's voice rose in pitch until John thought only bats would be able to hear him.
John sighed and plucked at his hospital gown. Too damned familiar.
Beckett shushed Rodney, and pulled him aside to confer with Elizabeth and Ronon and Teyla. John was surprised Caldwell didn't appear in their midst, even if the Daedelus wasn't due back for weeks yet.
Honestly, go into one stinking ruin and everybody's looking at him strange when he came out. And you can't tell John that the nakedness wasn't the real reason.
John felt an itch on the back of his neck, his hackles rising. A tall figure stood in the doorway, black hair spikey, face expressionless as he regarded John.
"Colonel Sheppard," Elizabeth summoned, and his originator walked over to join the chosen.
John slouched further down in bed and rolled his eyes.
* * *
It was boring being a clone, even one with his original's memories. Colonel Sheppard avoided John at all costs. John was forbidden from assisting with exploration, or flying, or doing anything.
John sat in a bare room all day long, a guard outside the door to prevent him from leaving. He only had books for company (not even a laptop - they didn't want him getting into the computer files), and tried to be patient.
John wasn't good at patient.
* * *
"Look," he told Kate Heightmeyer when she prodded too much. "It's not that I'm a clone. That's just one more strange thing that's happened in Atlantis. It's that nobody will talk to me, nobody will let me do anything."
She smiled at him, soothing in a way that made John's skin crawl, and said, "Given Colonel Sheppard's," and here her eyes darted down (ha!), "strong objections, I'm afraid your lack of occupation won't change. But I'll see what I can do to get you some company."
"Thanks," John said. For nothing.
* * *
Teyla offered to spar with fighting sticks, but John declined. There wasn't enough space in his de facto prison cell, and his only outings were to the infirmary for weekly medical tests.
* * *
Ronon stared at John with a strange expression on his face, and slunk out the door when John told him to leave.
John sighed, and began a regimen of push ups and sit ups and pacing.
Maybe he should ask Heightmeyer for a treadmill.
* * *
Rodney said, "Huh," when he stepped through the door.
John blinked at Rodney from the chair where he was reading Anna Karenina and said, "What?"
Rodney moved closer, in staccato beats, and looked discomfited.
"It's just weird, is all. You look just like him."
"A fact I rue every time I look into a mirror," John said. "Listen, can't you get me a portable DVD player or something? I'm going crazy here."
Rodney's headset demanded his attention, and he spread his hands helplessly as he dashed out into the corridor.
Always an emergency. John stalked over to the bad and punched the pillow.
* * *
"Are they even investigating what happened?" he asked Heightmeyer at her next visit.
"I can't discuss that, John," she said evenly.
So the answer was no.
* * *
Rodney returned carrying a slim silver package. "Listen," he said, "you don't want to know what favors I had to trade to get this.
He handed it over to John, along with a bundle of silver DVDs.
"Thanks, Rodney."
Rodney backed toward the door. "Uh, listen, I need to get back to the lab," and he was so profoundly uncomfortable that John waved him away and sat down to inventory his new entertainment options.
* * *
Rodney kept coming back, though, and bringing more movies. He even deigned to remain through the entirety of Donnie Darko.
Then Constantine.
He brought popcorn to accompany Galaxy Quest.
John laughed so hard he almost choked when he tried to swallow and inhale simultaneously. Rodney thumped his back with such enthusiasm that John fell down on the floor. He curled up into a ball and wheezed, still laughing.
Rodney paused the movie and looked at John uncertainly. "Are you okay?"
John smiled up at Rodney and said, "Better than a long time." He rose up onto his knees and stared into Rodney's face. The hell with it. He had no career to ruin anyway.
Rodney's mouth was soft underneath John's lips, and tasted of butter and salt. Rodney froze, unresponsive at first, and John coaxed as much as he could, until finally Rodney relaxed and began participating whole-heartedly.
Maybe captivity wouldn't be so bad now.
* * *
Except, not so much. Oh, John anticipated Rodney's visits: the press of flesh against flesh, hands inciting nerves, Rodney's weight pinning John down and then John pinning Rodney in turn. And the rush of desire spiraling higher and higher until the only thing they could do was clutch at each other and moan their climax.
But the time John spent alone chafed even harder than before.
He wondered what his originator was doing, if Rodney had gone to the man who occupied John's life to share the same passion. Maybe John was just a pale shadow of Colonel Sheppard, regardless of the memories they shared, the body Dr. Beckett declared identical.
* * *
Caldwell flew the Daedelus into orbit and the first John knew of it was when Hermiod was brought in to consult with Beckett. The Asgard had so much experience with cloning, after all. And his tests were more painful, more thorough, and John shivered in the cold infirmary air.
Bad news at the end of the ordeal: planned obsolescence, a life span of weeks instead of years, for reasons Hermiod didn't even pretend to care about. He looked at John with his expressionless face and huge black eyes, and said, "He will die two days from now."
John wouldn't meet any of their eyes, these people who'd regarded him as a freak ever since he saw a flash of light and reeled and looked up from his naked skin to see his mirror image (clothed, damn him) staring at him, perplexed.
Beckett said, horror in his voice, "There must be something we can do," but Hermiod was remorseless.
"Nothing."
* * *
Back in his room, John wondered if he should bother finishing Anna Karenina.
Rodney slunk past the guard in the midnight hours.
John told him to go away.
Rodney leaned down onto the bed and said, "No."
Notes: a placeholder for Danvers.
Recipient: roaringmice
Title: Fireworks
Author: Pouncer
Rating: PG
Category: gen
Spoilers: Through 2.02 The Intruder
Summary: Radek Zelenka deals with a crisis.
Fireworks
By Pouncer
Explosions sparked and boomed while Radek raced through Atlantis' corridors.
"Neprogramovatelný terminàl." If only Peter Grodin were still here, none of this would be happening. Grodin would have noticed the error logs compiling, would have alerted Radek before the fireworks started.
Just as well Rodney and Sheppard and Weir were away on Earth briefing the SGC about life in the Pegasus Galaxy for the past year. McKay would have been insufferable in this situation. And Radek could handle it. He could.
* * *
Teyla looked up when Radek trailed back into the control room, brushing the soot off his uniform jacket.
"Dr. Zelenka," she said, eying him with worry. "Is all well?"
Radek collapsed against a wall and scratched at his scalp with both hands. That had been too close.
"Dr. Zelenka?" Teyla asked again.
He sighed. "It is fine. Now."
The blond Canadian sergeant who sat in Grodin's chair hunched his shoulders as Radek approached him.
"Next time," Radek said seriously, "let me double-check your work."
The sergeant winced and nodded.
"Perhaps," Teyla said, "we should go eat lunch?" She smiled at Radek and her eyes sparkled.
One crisis averted. Who knew how many would follow? Radek should marshal his strength for the future. He nodded and let Teyla lead him to the mess hall. Roast pork loin was on the menu. Real pork, from pigs.
His day was looking up.
Notes: a placeholder for RoaringMice.
Neprogramovatelný terminàl = idiot terminal
Cross posted.
Recipient: stop
Title: Coddled, Scrambled, Fried, or Dyed
Author: Pouncer
Rating: PG
Category: gen
Spoilers: general for season one
Summary: Ticket for one to surreality theater, right this way.
Coddled, Scrambled, Fried, or Dyed
By Pouncer
"Major," Ford yelped, and then he was gone.
Sheppard turned from where he'd been observing McKay's cranky mutterings in a long-deserted lab and cocked his head. "Huh," he said.
Teyla rose from her kneeling posture on the floor, wiping her hands on her pants. "Major Sheppard?"
"Yeah?" His eyebrows furrowed.
"Where is Lieutenant Ford?" Her curiosity seemed mild.
"I don't know. And I don't really care." Sheppard giggled. He should feel shocked, he knew, or concerned, but it was really kind of funny. The Disappearing Lieutenant, see him now or lose your chance!
McKay thumped the terminal he was attempting to access and grumbled something under his breath. "Why couldn't they have left an instruction manual?" he said, plaintively, to the ceiling.
"What fun would that be, Rodney?" His drawl was getting more pronounced and Sheppard had to watch that, had to stay in charge. Him in charge. Hee.
There went another giggle.
McKay turned and his eyes narrowed. "Hey. Where did Ford go?"
Sheppard shrugged, and draped himself over a countertop. "Do you like to play videogames, Rodney? I hear some of the Marines snuck a Playstation through the wormhole." A smile crept over his face. "They might have flight simulators!" And oh, wouldn't that be cool. Not as cool as taking an Apache out to train, but nifty as the puddlejumpers were, Sheppard sometimes longed for the swoopy joy of a dive in flight, a jig, a jag, firing off missiles to hit targets one, two, three.
Woah.
"Okay," Sheppard said. "Something is wrong."
"Do you think so?" McKay asked, observing his hand with careful attention. "Hey, look at the way the tendons move!" He wiggled his fingers and poked at the back of his hand.
Teyla turned in circles, swishing her arms back and forth. She hummed as she moved, a tuneful melody permeating the air and turning Sheppard's bones to elastic.
"We dance when we sow," she informed Sheppard solemnly. "It is a sacred duty to the Ancestors, beseeching their protection until the crops mature." She balanced on one booted foot, pointed the other foot and extended her leg parallel to the floor. Her knee hinged, her toes moved close to her other knee, and she pirouetted, laughing.
"This is easier than just-plowed dirt," she cried, and threw herself forward to bounce off a wall.
Things got stranger then.
* * *
Shortly after the lights cut off, Zelenka's head poked through doors that had been forced to open enough to admit him.
Sheppard observed from his perch on the countertop.
Zelenka muttered something in Czech, pushed his glasses further up his nose, and shone a flashlight around. Rodney snored on the floor, curled up in a little ball. Teyla was braiding her hair into a kajillion little braids, sucking on the end of one strand she'd finished.
"Hey there," Sheppard said, and waved his hand in welcome. "It's fun here."
Dr. Weir's voice rang through the door, "Are they okay?"
"No clue," Zelenka shrugged and Sheppard giggled again.
A clucking conversation in the corridor outside, birds pecking over grain, and Sheppard could really go for some scrambled eggs. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, after all.
But wait! They wanted to play tag! Sheppard would not be IT, he wouldn't.
* * *
"Really, Rodney," Weir said, piercing icicles into Sheppard's skull, "don't you know better than to activate unknown Ancient technology? After everything -"
Rodney interrupted her with a moan. "Please. Not so loud," he breathed. Sheppard agreed silently. Quiet. Quiet would be good. He was careful to keep his eyes closed, because the red glow outside his eyelids was already too bright.
"Elizabeth dear," Dr. Beckett said, "Maybe they should rest a while longer?" The sound of footsteps retreating, and Sheppard caught whispers about sonic manipulation and irresponsible and crazy Ancients and Thank God Ford left when he did.
Sheppard sank back into sleep and thought about breakfast.
Notes: A placeholder for stop.
Recipient: sdraevn
Title: Waiting for Hermiod
Author: Pouncer
Rating: PG-13
Category: slash
Spoilers: general for season two
Summary: Send in the clones.
Waiting for Hermiod
By Pouncer
"Are you certain he's identical?" Rodney's voice rose in pitch until John thought only bats would be able to hear him.
John sighed and plucked at his hospital gown. Too damned familiar.
Beckett shushed Rodney, and pulled him aside to confer with Elizabeth and Ronon and Teyla. John was surprised Caldwell didn't appear in their midst, even if the Daedelus wasn't due back for weeks yet.
Honestly, go into one stinking ruin and everybody's looking at him strange when he came out. And you can't tell John that the nakedness wasn't the real reason.
John felt an itch on the back of his neck, his hackles rising. A tall figure stood in the doorway, black hair spikey, face expressionless as he regarded John.
"Colonel Sheppard," Elizabeth summoned, and his originator walked over to join the chosen.
John slouched further down in bed and rolled his eyes.
* * *
It was boring being a clone, even one with his original's memories. Colonel Sheppard avoided John at all costs. John was forbidden from assisting with exploration, or flying, or doing anything.
John sat in a bare room all day long, a guard outside the door to prevent him from leaving. He only had books for company (not even a laptop - they didn't want him getting into the computer files), and tried to be patient.
John wasn't good at patient.
* * *
"Look," he told Kate Heightmeyer when she prodded too much. "It's not that I'm a clone. That's just one more strange thing that's happened in Atlantis. It's that nobody will talk to me, nobody will let me do anything."
She smiled at him, soothing in a way that made John's skin crawl, and said, "Given Colonel Sheppard's," and here her eyes darted down (ha!), "strong objections, I'm afraid your lack of occupation won't change. But I'll see what I can do to get you some company."
"Thanks," John said. For nothing.
* * *
Teyla offered to spar with fighting sticks, but John declined. There wasn't enough space in his de facto prison cell, and his only outings were to the infirmary for weekly medical tests.
* * *
Ronon stared at John with a strange expression on his face, and slunk out the door when John told him to leave.
John sighed, and began a regimen of push ups and sit ups and pacing.
Maybe he should ask Heightmeyer for a treadmill.
* * *
Rodney said, "Huh," when he stepped through the door.
John blinked at Rodney from the chair where he was reading Anna Karenina and said, "What?"
Rodney moved closer, in staccato beats, and looked discomfited.
"It's just weird, is all. You look just like him."
"A fact I rue every time I look into a mirror," John said. "Listen, can't you get me a portable DVD player or something? I'm going crazy here."
Rodney's headset demanded his attention, and he spread his hands helplessly as he dashed out into the corridor.
Always an emergency. John stalked over to the bad and punched the pillow.
* * *
"Are they even investigating what happened?" he asked Heightmeyer at her next visit.
"I can't discuss that, John," she said evenly.
So the answer was no.
* * *
Rodney returned carrying a slim silver package. "Listen," he said, "you don't want to know what favors I had to trade to get this.
He handed it over to John, along with a bundle of silver DVDs.
"Thanks, Rodney."
Rodney backed toward the door. "Uh, listen, I need to get back to the lab," and he was so profoundly uncomfortable that John waved him away and sat down to inventory his new entertainment options.
* * *
Rodney kept coming back, though, and bringing more movies. He even deigned to remain through the entirety of Donnie Darko.
Then Constantine.
He brought popcorn to accompany Galaxy Quest.
John laughed so hard he almost choked when he tried to swallow and inhale simultaneously. Rodney thumped his back with such enthusiasm that John fell down on the floor. He curled up into a ball and wheezed, still laughing.
Rodney paused the movie and looked at John uncertainly. "Are you okay?"
John smiled up at Rodney and said, "Better than a long time." He rose up onto his knees and stared into Rodney's face. The hell with it. He had no career to ruin anyway.
Rodney's mouth was soft underneath John's lips, and tasted of butter and salt. Rodney froze, unresponsive at first, and John coaxed as much as he could, until finally Rodney relaxed and began participating whole-heartedly.
Maybe captivity wouldn't be so bad now.
* * *
Except, not so much. Oh, John anticipated Rodney's visits: the press of flesh against flesh, hands inciting nerves, Rodney's weight pinning John down and then John pinning Rodney in turn. And the rush of desire spiraling higher and higher until the only thing they could do was clutch at each other and moan their climax.
But the time John spent alone chafed even harder than before.
He wondered what his originator was doing, if Rodney had gone to the man who occupied John's life to share the same passion. Maybe John was just a pale shadow of Colonel Sheppard, regardless of the memories they shared, the body Dr. Beckett declared identical.
* * *
Caldwell flew the Daedelus into orbit and the first John knew of it was when Hermiod was brought in to consult with Beckett. The Asgard had so much experience with cloning, after all. And his tests were more painful, more thorough, and John shivered in the cold infirmary air.
Bad news at the end of the ordeal: planned obsolescence, a life span of weeks instead of years, for reasons Hermiod didn't even pretend to care about. He looked at John with his expressionless face and huge black eyes, and said, "He will die two days from now."
John wouldn't meet any of their eyes, these people who'd regarded him as a freak ever since he saw a flash of light and reeled and looked up from his naked skin to see his mirror image (clothed, damn him) staring at him, perplexed.
Beckett said, horror in his voice, "There must be something we can do," but Hermiod was remorseless.
"Nothing."
* * *
Back in his room, John wondered if he should bother finishing Anna Karenina.
Rodney slunk past the guard in the midnight hours.
John told him to go away.
Rodney leaned down onto the bed and said, "No."
Notes: a placeholder for Danvers.
Recipient: roaringmice
Title: Fireworks
Author: Pouncer
Rating: PG
Category: gen
Spoilers: Through 2.02 The Intruder
Summary: Radek Zelenka deals with a crisis.
Fireworks
By Pouncer
Explosions sparked and boomed while Radek raced through Atlantis' corridors.
"Neprogramovatelný terminàl." If only Peter Grodin were still here, none of this would be happening. Grodin would have noticed the error logs compiling, would have alerted Radek before the fireworks started.
Just as well Rodney and Sheppard and Weir were away on Earth briefing the SGC about life in the Pegasus Galaxy for the past year. McKay would have been insufferable in this situation. And Radek could handle it. He could.
* * *
Teyla looked up when Radek trailed back into the control room, brushing the soot off his uniform jacket.
"Dr. Zelenka," she said, eying him with worry. "Is all well?"
Radek collapsed against a wall and scratched at his scalp with both hands. That had been too close.
"Dr. Zelenka?" Teyla asked again.
He sighed. "It is fine. Now."
The blond Canadian sergeant who sat in Grodin's chair hunched his shoulders as Radek approached him.
"Next time," Radek said seriously, "let me double-check your work."
The sergeant winced and nodded.
"Perhaps," Teyla said, "we should go eat lunch?" She smiled at Radek and her eyes sparkled.
One crisis averted. Who knew how many would follow? Radek should marshal his strength for the future. He nodded and let Teyla lead him to the mess hall. Roast pork loin was on the menu. Real pork, from pigs.
His day was looking up.
Notes: a placeholder for RoaringMice.
Neprogramovatelný terminàl = idiot terminal
Cross posted.