sga_flashfic: Meed of Bane (Gen, PG-13, drunken/alcohol challenge)
Title: Meed of Bane
Rating: PG-15 for language, Gen
Summary: "Where are my pants?"
Spoilers: None
Word Count: ~1,640
Author's Note: Title borrowed from here. Feedback is delicious.
“Where are my pants?” John Sheppard demanded.
He’d woken up feeling like crap. His head hurt. It sincerely felt like some tiny dry, yet sticky and foul-tasting Pegasus alien had taken up residence in his mouth and laid carpet down on his tongue. The fact that this thought had occurred to him before the more rational answer of ‘hangover’ was vaguely disturbing. Sitting up made the more recognizable symptoms of nausea and deep regret kick in.
But his body also hurt. He’d apparently decided to drop his sleeping bag on an area of grass full of rocks and tiny little cactuses. Brilliant drunk decision-making, right there.
And his pants were missing.
Sheppard decided to blame Rodney McKay.
“Hey!” He snapped, chucking his field pillow at McKay’s head. They’d all chosen the lovely rock and cactus infested stretch of grass to bed down on, which made Sheppard feel slightly better. McKay was lying in his own sleeping bag not far away, but was too still and too not-snoring-like-a-buzz-saw to actually be asleep. “Where the hell are my pants?”
McKay flinched when Sheppard’s thrown pillow landed, though it missed his face and barely nudged his shoulder.
“Mmm,” he moaned, raising his hands to his face like Sheppard was going to throw something else. Making fists, McKay pressed his hands into his eye sockets. “Dunno. Leave me alone. Near death.”
Sheppard felt a little better that McKay was in the same condition. Looking around, keeping his movements slow to curb the nausea and the agony in his head, Sheppard found the other two possible culprits.
Teyla was curled into a tiny little ball, basically hunched into the fetal position. She wasn’t even inside her sleeping bag, just next to it.
“Teyla?”
She wasn’t asleep, either. He could tell by the low, miserable humming.
“You okay?”
Teyla’s eyes were squeezed shut, but she answered. “I am going to kill Ronon,” she said.
“Me, too,” piped up McKay.
Ronon was not actually there. His sleeping bag was rolled back up, ready to be stuffed in its bag for their return through the ‘Gate. Since Sheppard distinctly remember Ronon sprawling in it the night before, that meant Ronon was up and around and evidently not feeling like hard-boiled shit.
“I’ll help,” Sheppard said, because he was in fact now feeling sort of homicidal. “But I need my pants. Where are my pants?”
Slowly, Teyla unfolded herself and tried to sit up straight. Sheppard watched with sympathy as she fell over twice. The second time, she put her hand down on a cactus and cursed emphatically in Athosian. Sheppard had never actually seen her do that before.
McKay followed suit, miserably extracting himself from his sleeping bag with similar difficulty. “How did you lose your pants?” he asked, squinting at Sheppard.
“I don’t know,” Sheppard snapped. He was still sitting half inside his sleeping bag because he’d lost his BDU pants and his boxers, and he really needed to pee. “I don’t remember.”
McKay kind of glanced around, like Sheppard’s pants would be hiding somewhere in the flat, empty prairie where they’d camped. “Don’t see ‘em,” he said, utterly unhelpful. He raised one hand to his head, squinting against the midday sun. “I am in desperate need of medical attention. We need to go home now.”
Plucking the cactus needles out of her palm, Teyla didn’t look at him as she spoke. “We made them into a flag.”
Sheppard blinked at her. “My pants?” he asked.
Still not looking at him, she nodded gingerly. “Yes.”
He just stared at her. “Why?”
The needles out of her palm, Teyla leaned back carefully on her hands. She looked a little gray in the face. “We needed a flag,” she said, uncertainly.
“Out of my pants?” He might have yelled, because pain cracked across his temple.
“A flag?” McKay demanded, and Sheppard learned just how unpleasant that volume was.
Teyla winced, squeezing her eyes shut and swaying dangerously in place. “My head throbs,” she snapped. “Be quiet.”
“My pants,” Sheppard repeated, lower.
But now Teyla was glaring at him and rubbing her forehead with one hand. “I did not forcibly remove your pants,” she said, hotly. “It is not my fault.”
“You gave ‘em up,” that was Ronon, jogging back to their campsite. He was upright and dressed, face shining damp so he must have recently had a bath. Ronon didn’t look sick at all.
Sheppard wanted to kill him.
“I did not,” he snapped, incredulous.
Ronon looked down at him. “Yeah, you did.”
“We made a flag out of Sheppard’s pants?” McKay asked, kicking himself free of his sleeping bag and trying to stand up. “Why?”
Ronon shrugged, tilting his head. “Was a good idea at the time.”
“I’m going to murder you all,” Sheppard said, not very loudly but audible all the same. Ronon chuckled, which just made his death seem more appealing. “I don’t care why, where the hell are my pants, our flag now?”
“Oh, hey!” McKay said, suddenly. “I remember that part!” He looked at Sheppard and made a face. “Sorry.”
“We burned them,” Teyla provided. “You said the textiles would be pretty in the fire.”
Sheppard looked around for something else to throw at McKay. He didn’t find anything, not even the rocks he’d slept on all night.
McKay had managed to stand up, but he was having trouble staying that way.
“I’m never drinking with you again,” he told Ronon. “What was that, Satedan moonshine?”
“What’s moonshine?” asked Ronon.
“Bottled evil,” said Sheppard. He scowled. “Somebody lend me their spare uniform, I have to piss.”
McKay and Ronon stared at him.
“Don’t got one,” Ronon told him.
“Me, either,” said McKay, shaking his head. That was a bad idea, because then he had to sit down.
“I do but my pants will not fit you,” Teyla said, politely.
Sheppard made his hands into fists, resisted the urge to punch the ground.
“Why the hell did we burn my boxers?” he demanded.
“Because flags aren’t just one color,” said McKay, like Sheppard was idiot.
There was silence for a second because Sheppard couldn’t come up with anything to say that wasn’t profanity or a death threat.
“Ronon, help me stand,” Teyla requested.
Ronon didn’t move. “You gonna hit me?” he asked.
“Later,” Teyla promised, and Ronon obediently walked over and offered her his hands.
Teyla grabbed hold and he lifted her upright. McKay struggled to his feet again, leaving only Sheppard on the ground.
Sheppard did remember the previous night, a blur of Ronon discovering the village they’d visited manufactured some ale he remembered from Sateda and then Ronon insisting they all try it. He remembered the fire and McKay almost falling in it. But his memory was blank on the subject of his pants and the goddamn flag.
Teyla was murmuring something in Ronon’s ear.
Ronon cracked a huge grin. “Yeah,” he said, “that’ll work.”
“What?” Sheppard demanded, suspicious.
Teyla turned towards him. “I have a skirt I pack for celebrations,” she said. “It has a stretch tie. I think it will fit you.”
McKay made a choked noise and Sheppard looked sharply over at him.
“If I laugh, I’m going to puke,” McKay said, miserably. He was sort of gasping, already.
“If you laugh, I’m going to kill you,” Sheppard snapped.
It was too late, though, because McKay’s body was shuddering and he was giggling uncontrollably. “It hurts,” he said. But he couldn’t stop. “Oww.”
Teyla’s stupid silky pink skirt did fit Sheppard. It was a little tight at the waist and would have made him feel even queasier, except that he was distracted by the mind-numbing rage and embarrassment.
Teyla was doing an excellent job keeping her face straight. Maybe she felt crappy enough that it wasn’t that funny, or maybe she was afraid one of them was going to puke on her nice skirt.
Ronon wasn’t laughing out loud, but he was doing this sly smile thing that somehow managed to be worse.
McKay had given up, completely. He was laughing so hard he was having trouble breathing, and at one point tried to take a picture with his digital camera. Ronon had the sense and agility to take it away from him, because Sheppard was going to try and see if it would fit down McKay’s throat.
Ignoring his teammates, Sheppard shoved his boots on. They probably made the skirt look even more ridiculous, but if he stepped on a cactus while taking a leak, it would be time to shoot something.
When he was done, he stumbled back to their campsite.
“Okay,” he said. “We’re going back to Atlantis.” He took a deep breath, glared at McKay who still hadn’t managed to stop snickering. “Nobody is going to say anything and nobody is going to get shot.”
Teyla bit her bottom lip.
“What?” Sheppard demanded.
“I was just going to say,” she murmured, voice rising in pitch. “that my skirt is quite flattering on you.”
McKay howled. Sheppard thought about shooting them all.
“You may keep it if you like,” Teyla continued, chest hitching as she fought down her laughter.
“No talking,” he ordered. “Just no talking. Let’s go.”
“Ladies first,” McKay said, and then promptly lost it again.
Sheppard made McKay and Teyla walk ahead, namely because they both had trouble with his command about not talking if they could see him and his stupid pink skirt. Ronon, at least, stayed silent even if Sheppard wanted to punch the smirk off of his face.
“Ronon,” he said, as they trudged back to the ‘Gate. “Now that I’ve had some of your culture’s alcohol, you have to try some of mine. I think you’ll like tequila.”
“Okay,” Ronon said, evenly. “Are you planning on stealing my pants and making me wear a skirt?”
“Would that work?”
“Depends how good tequila is,” Ronon answered.
~please feed the author~
Rating: PG-15 for language, Gen
Summary: "Where are my pants?"
Spoilers: None
Word Count: ~1,640
Author's Note: Title borrowed from here. Feedback is delicious.
“Where are my pants?” John Sheppard demanded.
He’d woken up feeling like crap. His head hurt. It sincerely felt like some tiny dry, yet sticky and foul-tasting Pegasus alien had taken up residence in his mouth and laid carpet down on his tongue. The fact that this thought had occurred to him before the more rational answer of ‘hangover’ was vaguely disturbing. Sitting up made the more recognizable symptoms of nausea and deep regret kick in.
But his body also hurt. He’d apparently decided to drop his sleeping bag on an area of grass full of rocks and tiny little cactuses. Brilliant drunk decision-making, right there.
And his pants were missing.
Sheppard decided to blame Rodney McKay.
“Hey!” He snapped, chucking his field pillow at McKay’s head. They’d all chosen the lovely rock and cactus infested stretch of grass to bed down on, which made Sheppard feel slightly better. McKay was lying in his own sleeping bag not far away, but was too still and too not-snoring-like-a-buzz-saw to actually be asleep. “Where the hell are my pants?”
McKay flinched when Sheppard’s thrown pillow landed, though it missed his face and barely nudged his shoulder.
“Mmm,” he moaned, raising his hands to his face like Sheppard was going to throw something else. Making fists, McKay pressed his hands into his eye sockets. “Dunno. Leave me alone. Near death.”
Sheppard felt a little better that McKay was in the same condition. Looking around, keeping his movements slow to curb the nausea and the agony in his head, Sheppard found the other two possible culprits.
Teyla was curled into a tiny little ball, basically hunched into the fetal position. She wasn’t even inside her sleeping bag, just next to it.
“Teyla?”
She wasn’t asleep, either. He could tell by the low, miserable humming.
“You okay?”
Teyla’s eyes were squeezed shut, but she answered. “I am going to kill Ronon,” she said.
“Me, too,” piped up McKay.
Ronon was not actually there. His sleeping bag was rolled back up, ready to be stuffed in its bag for their return through the ‘Gate. Since Sheppard distinctly remember Ronon sprawling in it the night before, that meant Ronon was up and around and evidently not feeling like hard-boiled shit.
“I’ll help,” Sheppard said, because he was in fact now feeling sort of homicidal. “But I need my pants. Where are my pants?”
Slowly, Teyla unfolded herself and tried to sit up straight. Sheppard watched with sympathy as she fell over twice. The second time, she put her hand down on a cactus and cursed emphatically in Athosian. Sheppard had never actually seen her do that before.
McKay followed suit, miserably extracting himself from his sleeping bag with similar difficulty. “How did you lose your pants?” he asked, squinting at Sheppard.
“I don’t know,” Sheppard snapped. He was still sitting half inside his sleeping bag because he’d lost his BDU pants and his boxers, and he really needed to pee. “I don’t remember.”
McKay kind of glanced around, like Sheppard’s pants would be hiding somewhere in the flat, empty prairie where they’d camped. “Don’t see ‘em,” he said, utterly unhelpful. He raised one hand to his head, squinting against the midday sun. “I am in desperate need of medical attention. We need to go home now.”
Plucking the cactus needles out of her palm, Teyla didn’t look at him as she spoke. “We made them into a flag.”
Sheppard blinked at her. “My pants?” he asked.
Still not looking at him, she nodded gingerly. “Yes.”
He just stared at her. “Why?”
The needles out of her palm, Teyla leaned back carefully on her hands. She looked a little gray in the face. “We needed a flag,” she said, uncertainly.
“Out of my pants?” He might have yelled, because pain cracked across his temple.
“A flag?” McKay demanded, and Sheppard learned just how unpleasant that volume was.
Teyla winced, squeezing her eyes shut and swaying dangerously in place. “My head throbs,” she snapped. “Be quiet.”
“My pants,” Sheppard repeated, lower.
But now Teyla was glaring at him and rubbing her forehead with one hand. “I did not forcibly remove your pants,” she said, hotly. “It is not my fault.”
“You gave ‘em up,” that was Ronon, jogging back to their campsite. He was upright and dressed, face shining damp so he must have recently had a bath. Ronon didn’t look sick at all.
Sheppard wanted to kill him.
“I did not,” he snapped, incredulous.
Ronon looked down at him. “Yeah, you did.”
“We made a flag out of Sheppard’s pants?” McKay asked, kicking himself free of his sleeping bag and trying to stand up. “Why?”
Ronon shrugged, tilting his head. “Was a good idea at the time.”
“I’m going to murder you all,” Sheppard said, not very loudly but audible all the same. Ronon chuckled, which just made his death seem more appealing. “I don’t care why, where the hell are my pants, our flag now?”
“Oh, hey!” McKay said, suddenly. “I remember that part!” He looked at Sheppard and made a face. “Sorry.”
“We burned them,” Teyla provided. “You said the textiles would be pretty in the fire.”
Sheppard looked around for something else to throw at McKay. He didn’t find anything, not even the rocks he’d slept on all night.
McKay had managed to stand up, but he was having trouble staying that way.
“I’m never drinking with you again,” he told Ronon. “What was that, Satedan moonshine?”
“What’s moonshine?” asked Ronon.
“Bottled evil,” said Sheppard. He scowled. “Somebody lend me their spare uniform, I have to piss.”
McKay and Ronon stared at him.
“Don’t got one,” Ronon told him.
“Me, either,” said McKay, shaking his head. That was a bad idea, because then he had to sit down.
“I do but my pants will not fit you,” Teyla said, politely.
Sheppard made his hands into fists, resisted the urge to punch the ground.
“Why the hell did we burn my boxers?” he demanded.
“Because flags aren’t just one color,” said McKay, like Sheppard was idiot.
There was silence for a second because Sheppard couldn’t come up with anything to say that wasn’t profanity or a death threat.
“Ronon, help me stand,” Teyla requested.
Ronon didn’t move. “You gonna hit me?” he asked.
“Later,” Teyla promised, and Ronon obediently walked over and offered her his hands.
Teyla grabbed hold and he lifted her upright. McKay struggled to his feet again, leaving only Sheppard on the ground.
Sheppard did remember the previous night, a blur of Ronon discovering the village they’d visited manufactured some ale he remembered from Sateda and then Ronon insisting they all try it. He remembered the fire and McKay almost falling in it. But his memory was blank on the subject of his pants and the goddamn flag.
Teyla was murmuring something in Ronon’s ear.
Ronon cracked a huge grin. “Yeah,” he said, “that’ll work.”
“What?” Sheppard demanded, suspicious.
Teyla turned towards him. “I have a skirt I pack for celebrations,” she said. “It has a stretch tie. I think it will fit you.”
McKay made a choked noise and Sheppard looked sharply over at him.
“If I laugh, I’m going to puke,” McKay said, miserably. He was sort of gasping, already.
“If you laugh, I’m going to kill you,” Sheppard snapped.
It was too late, though, because McKay’s body was shuddering and he was giggling uncontrollably. “It hurts,” he said. But he couldn’t stop. “Oww.”
Teyla’s stupid silky pink skirt did fit Sheppard. It was a little tight at the waist and would have made him feel even queasier, except that he was distracted by the mind-numbing rage and embarrassment.
Teyla was doing an excellent job keeping her face straight. Maybe she felt crappy enough that it wasn’t that funny, or maybe she was afraid one of them was going to puke on her nice skirt.
Ronon wasn’t laughing out loud, but he was doing this sly smile thing that somehow managed to be worse.
McKay had given up, completely. He was laughing so hard he was having trouble breathing, and at one point tried to take a picture with his digital camera. Ronon had the sense and agility to take it away from him, because Sheppard was going to try and see if it would fit down McKay’s throat.
Ignoring his teammates, Sheppard shoved his boots on. They probably made the skirt look even more ridiculous, but if he stepped on a cactus while taking a leak, it would be time to shoot something.
When he was done, he stumbled back to their campsite.
“Okay,” he said. “We’re going back to Atlantis.” He took a deep breath, glared at McKay who still hadn’t managed to stop snickering. “Nobody is going to say anything and nobody is going to get shot.”
Teyla bit her bottom lip.
“What?” Sheppard demanded.
“I was just going to say,” she murmured, voice rising in pitch. “that my skirt is quite flattering on you.”
McKay howled. Sheppard thought about shooting them all.
“You may keep it if you like,” Teyla continued, chest hitching as she fought down her laughter.
“No talking,” he ordered. “Just no talking. Let’s go.”
“Ladies first,” McKay said, and then promptly lost it again.
Sheppard made McKay and Teyla walk ahead, namely because they both had trouble with his command about not talking if they could see him and his stupid pink skirt. Ronon, at least, stayed silent even if Sheppard wanted to punch the smirk off of his face.
“Ronon,” he said, as they trudged back to the ‘Gate. “Now that I’ve had some of your culture’s alcohol, you have to try some of mine. I think you’ll like tequila.”
“Okay,” Ronon said, evenly. “Are you planning on stealing my pants and making me wear a skirt?”
“Would that work?”
“Depends how good tequila is,” Ronon answered.
~please feed the author~