.ficlet: SPROING - McKay/Sheppard (PG)
So someone posted a link in sheafrotherdon's LJ about Joe's too-crazy-to-be-true-but-IS hair, and that got mixed up with the now-canonical knowledge that Athosian alcohol is some strong stuff, and so I give you a very silly Cate!instigated ficlet.
When John tells Keller to watch out for the rus wine at the Athosians' festival, he's speaking from experience.
"SPROINGGG!" Rodney says for the thirtieth time tonight.
"Okay, buddy," John says, "Sproing. Got it."
"Why's your hair do that?" The question is soft, plaintive, echoed by the gentle hand flattening down John's cowlicks. "Antigravity field, maybe?"
"Yup, antigravity," John agrees, voice heavy with the patience he's learned in dealing with over three years of Rodney in all his manifestations. Rodney grins hugely, drunkenly, mashes his palm onto John's skull and triumphantly shouts SPROING! when he lifts his hand back up.
He's been doing this--the press-and-SPROING routine with John's head--since not even halfway through his first cup of rus wine. Teyla had told him it was stronger than Earth wine, John had told him, hell, even Ronon had told him it was powerful stuff, but Rodney had sniffed, muttered something about "battery acid in Siberia" and downed half the cup in one go.
And now, like most designated drivers, John is paying for his sobriety.
Rodney's always been fascinated by John's hair, casual remarks about its gravity-defying abilities, general messiness, relation of same to an interest in electrical outlets, etc. And now the rus wine has amplified this fascination to intolerable levels, because Rodney will not stop his investigation of the resilience of John's hair, the volume of each successive SPROING becoming louder, and the hair-mashing correspondingly harder.
John eyes the path back to the gate, wondering what the odds are of the two of them making it back without death or grave personal injury. The way Rodney is now shouting SPROING right in John's ear is making the latter a distinct possibility for one of them.
Fortunately, Teyla sees them and comes over, smiling the smile that is indulgent and yet promises John that she has absolutely no intention of becoming involved.
"You may make use of the guest quarters, if you wish," she tells him, repeating the "guest quarters" bit because of another SPROING and Rodney's delightedly maniacal giggling.
John thanks her, and Teyla escapes before he can woo her into helping him with Rodney's drunken and recalcitrant self. Somehow he persuades Rodney to stand up, which requires him to let Rodney hang all his weight off of John's shoulders, and lunge at him every few steps to flatten his hair and shout SPROING! right in John's rapidly-growing-deaf ear.
He herds Rodney into the tent, their boots awkward and loud in its unexpectedly silent space. After a moment, Rodney registers that they're in a tent and is drawing breath, probably to complain about it, when he just loosens against John and melts into the curve of his side.
"Sproing," he whispers, but the hand doesn't quite make it, only brushing John's temple.
"Yes, sproing," John says for the thousandth time tonight. "Here, sit down."
Rodney collapses onto the cot, peering hazily around the tent as though he's never been in one before. John kneels to undo Rodney's boots, and his reward for that bit of charity is to have Rodney mash both his sweaty, grubby hands into his cowlicks, fingers moving in hesitating circles. He sighs a little--god, he loves this sort of touching, even if it is Rodney's sweaty, grubby hands--and needs a moment to remember how to untie shoelaces.
"Srrrrpoing!" Rodney mumbles, leaning in close, his breath wine-drenched and affectionate across John's forehead.
"Got that one wrong, buddy." When John lifts his head, Rodney's fingers slip down the side of his face, and when he looks up, Rodney's looking down with glassy eyes that catch what light filters through the tent.
"I did?" Rodney looks around some more, frowning a little. "Oh."
"Yup." John kicks off his own boots, takes care of their weapons while Rodney's distracted. "And you're drunk, which means you need to drink some water and go to sleep, 'cause the sooner you wake up, the sooner you'll have your hangover."
"Hm." Obediently, Rodney swallows half his canteen when John offers it to him, and flops backward, taking up almost all of the cot--which is, in itself, not much space to begin with. He hmms and sproings some more as John shuffles him over into his corner, and hmms and sighs as John curls in close and tight behind him.
"Sproing," Rodney mumbles, gesturing in a vague imitation of cowlick-flattening, since he can't get at John's head anymore. "Really... r'ly amazing."
"Yeah." John noses agreement against Rodney's damp neck. "Amazing."
When John tells Keller to watch out for the rus wine at the Athosians' festival, he's speaking from experience.
"SPROINGGG!" Rodney says for the thirtieth time tonight.
"Okay, buddy," John says, "Sproing. Got it."
"Why's your hair do that?" The question is soft, plaintive, echoed by the gentle hand flattening down John's cowlicks. "Antigravity field, maybe?"
"Yup, antigravity," John agrees, voice heavy with the patience he's learned in dealing with over three years of Rodney in all his manifestations. Rodney grins hugely, drunkenly, mashes his palm onto John's skull and triumphantly shouts SPROING! when he lifts his hand back up.
He's been doing this--the press-and-SPROING routine with John's head--since not even halfway through his first cup of rus wine. Teyla had told him it was stronger than Earth wine, John had told him, hell, even Ronon had told him it was powerful stuff, but Rodney had sniffed, muttered something about "battery acid in Siberia" and downed half the cup in one go.
And now, like most designated drivers, John is paying for his sobriety.
Rodney's always been fascinated by John's hair, casual remarks about its gravity-defying abilities, general messiness, relation of same to an interest in electrical outlets, etc. And now the rus wine has amplified this fascination to intolerable levels, because Rodney will not stop his investigation of the resilience of John's hair, the volume of each successive SPROING becoming louder, and the hair-mashing correspondingly harder.
John eyes the path back to the gate, wondering what the odds are of the two of them making it back without death or grave personal injury. The way Rodney is now shouting SPROING right in John's ear is making the latter a distinct possibility for one of them.
Fortunately, Teyla sees them and comes over, smiling the smile that is indulgent and yet promises John that she has absolutely no intention of becoming involved.
"You may make use of the guest quarters, if you wish," she tells him, repeating the "guest quarters" bit because of another SPROING and Rodney's delightedly maniacal giggling.
John thanks her, and Teyla escapes before he can woo her into helping him with Rodney's drunken and recalcitrant self. Somehow he persuades Rodney to stand up, which requires him to let Rodney hang all his weight off of John's shoulders, and lunge at him every few steps to flatten his hair and shout SPROING! right in John's rapidly-growing-deaf ear.
He herds Rodney into the tent, their boots awkward and loud in its unexpectedly silent space. After a moment, Rodney registers that they're in a tent and is drawing breath, probably to complain about it, when he just loosens against John and melts into the curve of his side.
"Sproing," he whispers, but the hand doesn't quite make it, only brushing John's temple.
"Yes, sproing," John says for the thousandth time tonight. "Here, sit down."
Rodney collapses onto the cot, peering hazily around the tent as though he's never been in one before. John kneels to undo Rodney's boots, and his reward for that bit of charity is to have Rodney mash both his sweaty, grubby hands into his cowlicks, fingers moving in hesitating circles. He sighs a little--god, he loves this sort of touching, even if it is Rodney's sweaty, grubby hands--and needs a moment to remember how to untie shoelaces.
"Srrrrpoing!" Rodney mumbles, leaning in close, his breath wine-drenched and affectionate across John's forehead.
"Got that one wrong, buddy." When John lifts his head, Rodney's fingers slip down the side of his face, and when he looks up, Rodney's looking down with glassy eyes that catch what light filters through the tent.
"I did?" Rodney looks around some more, frowning a little. "Oh."
"Yup." John kicks off his own boots, takes care of their weapons while Rodney's distracted. "And you're drunk, which means you need to drink some water and go to sleep, 'cause the sooner you wake up, the sooner you'll have your hangover."
"Hm." Obediently, Rodney swallows half his canteen when John offers it to him, and flops backward, taking up almost all of the cot--which is, in itself, not much space to begin with. He hmms and sproings some more as John shuffles him over into his corner, and hmms and sighs as John curls in close and tight behind him.
"Sproing," Rodney mumbles, gesturing in a vague imitation of cowlick-flattening, since he can't get at John's head anymore. "Really... r'ly amazing."
"Yeah." John noses agreement against Rodney's damp neck. "Amazing."