New Fic: (Not Quite) Friday Night Lights
Title: (Not Quite) Friday Night Lights
Author:
wojelah
Fandom: SGA: team gen; McKay/Sheppard pre-slash if you really want to find it.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author's Notes:
omglawdork started it by observing that "for all Sheppard loves college football, we never see him with a ball." And then she asked "What if he loooooooves it, but he just SUCKS at football." Two hours of football tutorial later, this happened. She had the good grace to beta, as did
smittywing and
raisintorte .
Summary: "...apparently some traditions translate across galaxies..."
"Ferris wheels, college football, and anything that goes over 200 mph, Sheppard," growls Ronon.
"You weren't even there for that conversation," John wheezes, staring at the sky, although he's pretty sure he knows who passed that quote along. He stops counting his unbroken ribs long enough to shoot an evil, evil glare at Teyla, who merely lifts an eyebrow. "You don't even know what colleges are."
"Academies of learning," Ronon supplies. "I asked McKay. We had something similar on Sateda." He eyes John. "It was considered the height of dishonor to compete in your house's name and lose."
"Great," John groans, sitting up. "I'll schedule the seppuku later. Teyla," he says, "what's the score?"
"Your side is down by three, John," she replies, scanning the field. "Third and eighteen, on your own thirty, with three seconds left." John has a fleeting moment of affection for the Prime Directive, because non-interference would mean he wouldn't be sitting on the ground watching Lorne's team kick his team's ass. Not that he'll ever admit that in public. Teyla's affinity for the game would be alarming, except that she's the only one everyone can agree on to referee. "Sixty seconds," she warns.
"All right, all right," John mutters and stands, waving his ragtag bunch of Marines and Athosians into a huddle. "Okay. This is gonna be a long shot. Jinto," he orders, and the kid practically beams. "Parker's going to snap to you, and then all I want you to think about is getting that ball to Ronon. Got it?" Jinto nods, paling. "Look," John says, hoping his smile looks less like a grimace and more like encouragement. "It's a stretch, but you've got a good arm. And Ronon can run like hell. He'll be there." Jinto nods again. Ronon grunts. "Sherman, you're in for me. Talok - you and Millington keep 'em away from the kid." The red-headed Athosian smiles in agreement, and John feels a moment of pity for any of Lorne's men who try to take her down. "The rest of you just..." he waves a hand, "get in the way."
Teyla clears her throat. "Thirty seconds."
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles. "Go on." They scatter. On the field, Halling smiles, and John makes a mental note to slip Jinto the itching powder he confiscated from the science department during their last standoff with the Marines, because that tackle was totally unnecessary.
"Really, Colonel," Rodney grouses, wandering over from the science department's betting pool. "I'd have thought you'd be better at this."
"I said I liked football, McKay, not that I was good at it."
Rodney smirks. "I have no idea why you like it so much," he snarks, "given that hockey is far, far superior in every way that matters."
John's about to remind him that hockey doesn't come with cheerleaders when movement out of the corner of his eye snaps his attention back to the field. He cuts off what ever Rodney's about to say next. "Shut up. Play's starting."
John's holding his breath, but that's clearly because his side still hurts like hell. Ball's set, his team's all lined up - and Jinto looks minute behind the offensive line. Parker's snap is clean, and John's right there with Jinto, watching him scan for Ronon, gauging the angle and the force, the math spinning out in the back of John's head. The kid pulls back, lets go, and the throw is crisp and perfect and sailing, god damn, and it just floats into Ronon's hands, the big guy cradling the pigskin like it's a baby as he sprints for the end zone. His team goes nuts, and John only realizes he's grabbing at McKay, pounding his shoulder and screaming at the top of his lungs when Rodney gets a hand free and starts smacking him back. Rodney's complaining, but his grin matches John's own, and he's pretty sure it's not because McKay just won the pot. Well - not only that, anyway.
Jinto's up on Ronon's shoulders, yelling "John, John, John!" and John can't help it, has to yell back "Holy shit, I saw!" and ignore Teyla and Elizabeth when they give him identical looks of consternation. John looks at Rodney, who's rubbing his shoulder and muttering half-heartedly, and says "That, McKay. That's why."
To which McKay says, "Yes, well, I hope you also like pneumonia, because apparently some traditions translate across galaxies," and John sees Millington lugging their purloined cooler in their direction, two teams at his heels. Ronon's grinning, and Lorne's clearly about to enjoy this way too much. John's hemmed in by practically the whole damned settlement, which means a strategic retreat isn't going to happen. Rodney's still going on about barbaric post-game traditions, so he's completely oblivious when John grabs a fistful of his shirt and hauls him into range. Afterwards, standing drenched and freezing in the afternoon sunlight, side aching, Jinto crowing, and McKay bitching away, John looks back up at the sky and thinks, Yeah. This is why.
Author:
wojelah
Fandom: SGA: team gen; McKay/Sheppard pre-slash if you really want to find it.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author's Notes:
omglawdork started it by observing that "for all Sheppard loves college football, we never see him with a ball." And then she asked "What if he loooooooves it, but he just SUCKS at football." Two hours of football tutorial later, this happened. She had the good grace to beta, as did
smittywing and
raisintorte .
Summary: "...apparently some traditions translate across galaxies..."
"Ferris wheels, college football, and anything that goes over 200 mph, Sheppard," growls Ronon.
"You weren't even there for that conversation," John wheezes, staring at the sky, although he's pretty sure he knows who passed that quote along. He stops counting his unbroken ribs long enough to shoot an evil, evil glare at Teyla, who merely lifts an eyebrow. "You don't even know what colleges are."
"Academies of learning," Ronon supplies. "I asked McKay. We had something similar on Sateda." He eyes John. "It was considered the height of dishonor to compete in your house's name and lose."
"Great," John groans, sitting up. "I'll schedule the seppuku later. Teyla," he says, "what's the score?"
"Your side is down by three, John," she replies, scanning the field. "Third and eighteen, on your own thirty, with three seconds left." John has a fleeting moment of affection for the Prime Directive, because non-interference would mean he wouldn't be sitting on the ground watching Lorne's team kick his team's ass. Not that he'll ever admit that in public. Teyla's affinity for the game would be alarming, except that she's the only one everyone can agree on to referee. "Sixty seconds," she warns.
"All right, all right," John mutters and stands, waving his ragtag bunch of Marines and Athosians into a huddle. "Okay. This is gonna be a long shot. Jinto," he orders, and the kid practically beams. "Parker's going to snap to you, and then all I want you to think about is getting that ball to Ronon. Got it?" Jinto nods, paling. "Look," John says, hoping his smile looks less like a grimace and more like encouragement. "It's a stretch, but you've got a good arm. And Ronon can run like hell. He'll be there." Jinto nods again. Ronon grunts. "Sherman, you're in for me. Talok - you and Millington keep 'em away from the kid." The red-headed Athosian smiles in agreement, and John feels a moment of pity for any of Lorne's men who try to take her down. "The rest of you just..." he waves a hand, "get in the way."
Teyla clears her throat. "Thirty seconds."
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles. "Go on." They scatter. On the field, Halling smiles, and John makes a mental note to slip Jinto the itching powder he confiscated from the science department during their last standoff with the Marines, because that tackle was totally unnecessary.
"Really, Colonel," Rodney grouses, wandering over from the science department's betting pool. "I'd have thought you'd be better at this."
"I said I liked football, McKay, not that I was good at it."
Rodney smirks. "I have no idea why you like it so much," he snarks, "given that hockey is far, far superior in every way that matters."
John's about to remind him that hockey doesn't come with cheerleaders when movement out of the corner of his eye snaps his attention back to the field. He cuts off what ever Rodney's about to say next. "Shut up. Play's starting."
John's holding his breath, but that's clearly because his side still hurts like hell. Ball's set, his team's all lined up - and Jinto looks minute behind the offensive line. Parker's snap is clean, and John's right there with Jinto, watching him scan for Ronon, gauging the angle and the force, the math spinning out in the back of John's head. The kid pulls back, lets go, and the throw is crisp and perfect and sailing, god damn, and it just floats into Ronon's hands, the big guy cradling the pigskin like it's a baby as he sprints for the end zone. His team goes nuts, and John only realizes he's grabbing at McKay, pounding his shoulder and screaming at the top of his lungs when Rodney gets a hand free and starts smacking him back. Rodney's complaining, but his grin matches John's own, and he's pretty sure it's not because McKay just won the pot. Well - not only that, anyway.
Jinto's up on Ronon's shoulders, yelling "John, John, John!" and John can't help it, has to yell back "Holy shit, I saw!" and ignore Teyla and Elizabeth when they give him identical looks of consternation. John looks at Rodney, who's rubbing his shoulder and muttering half-heartedly, and says "That, McKay. That's why."
To which McKay says, "Yes, well, I hope you also like pneumonia, because apparently some traditions translate across galaxies," and John sees Millington lugging their purloined cooler in their direction, two teams at his heels. Ronon's grinning, and Lorne's clearly about to enjoy this way too much. John's hemmed in by practically the whole damned settlement, which means a strategic retreat isn't going to happen. Rodney's still going on about barbaric post-game traditions, so he's completely oblivious when John grabs a fistful of his shirt and hauls him into range. Afterwards, standing drenched and freezing in the afternoon sunlight, side aching, Jinto crowing, and McKay bitching away, John looks back up at the sky and thinks, Yeah. This is why.