McKay's Law
Title: McKay's Law
Rating: PG
Pairing: sort-of-implied-but-sort-of-not John/Rodney
Warnings/Spoilers: None! (Unless the reader chooses to see just a smidge of angst, that is.)
Summary: Rodney's been moping around Atlantis.
Notes: For
ember_firedrake. <3 (Also, how did I manage to get halfway through season five of SGA without tags for it?!)
Rodney's been moping around Atlantis for the past several days and John's about ready to snap.
If there had been a clear cause for the heavy sighs and woebegone looks, John would have been fine. He can deal with clear causes. Clear causes have clear solutions. John's good at clear solutions. It's this whole business of "not really that, but not really this, either," that gets him confused and frustrated.
But no. Nothing to do with Rodney McKay could have clear solutions except when the man himself was implementing them on the fuck-up of the week. It was pretty much an immutable law of the Pegasus Galaxy. McKay's Law. Nothing pertaining to the singular Rodney McKay will have a clear solution unless it is something that only the singular Rodney McKay can solve.
John doesn't like McKay's Law on the best of days.
Right now, he downright hates it.
Hates it enough to finally confront Rodney, corner him in an empty lab late at night, no mission scheduled for tomorrow or the next day and demand a cause. To huff and glare and try to understand so that he can fix whatever's broken.
And Rodney looks at him and just sighs. Sighs and John's will is broken.
John slumps, lets his head fall to rest on Rodney's shoulder. "I can't fix it if I don't know what's broken," he mutters.
Rodney sighs again, less sorrow and more resignment. "Not everything is something you can fix," he murmurs back. John spends a moment wrapping that concept around the Rodney McKay he knows, the one he watches every day try and fix whatever he can get his hands on: the city, the Jumper, the people, the universe.
Eventually, he leaves that train of thought to pursue when he's less preoccupied, finding it too convoluted for the small amount of focus he has for it. "But I like fixing things," he complains. Rodney's hand comes up to splay across his back, a warm weight.
"I know," he says. "I know."
Rating: PG
Pairing: sort-of-implied-but-sort-of-not John/Rodney
Warnings/Spoilers: None! (Unless the reader chooses to see just a smidge of angst, that is.)
Summary: Rodney's been moping around Atlantis.
Notes: For
ember_firedrake. <3 (Also, how did I manage to get halfway through season five of SGA without tags for it?!)
Rodney's been moping around Atlantis for the past several days and John's about ready to snap.
If there had been a clear cause for the heavy sighs and woebegone looks, John would have been fine. He can deal with clear causes. Clear causes have clear solutions. John's good at clear solutions. It's this whole business of "not really that, but not really this, either," that gets him confused and frustrated.
But no. Nothing to do with Rodney McKay could have clear solutions except when the man himself was implementing them on the fuck-up of the week. It was pretty much an immutable law of the Pegasus Galaxy. McKay's Law. Nothing pertaining to the singular Rodney McKay will have a clear solution unless it is something that only the singular Rodney McKay can solve.
John doesn't like McKay's Law on the best of days.
Right now, he downright hates it.
Hates it enough to finally confront Rodney, corner him in an empty lab late at night, no mission scheduled for tomorrow or the next day and demand a cause. To huff and glare and try to understand so that he can fix whatever's broken.
And Rodney looks at him and just sighs. Sighs and John's will is broken.
John slumps, lets his head fall to rest on Rodney's shoulder. "I can't fix it if I don't know what's broken," he mutters.
Rodney sighs again, less sorrow and more resignment. "Not everything is something you can fix," he murmurs back. John spends a moment wrapping that concept around the Rodney McKay he knows, the one he watches every day try and fix whatever he can get his hands on: the city, the Jumper, the people, the universe.
Eventually, he leaves that train of thought to pursue when he's less preoccupied, finding it too convoluted for the small amount of focus he has for it. "But I like fixing things," he complains. Rodney's hand comes up to splay across his back, a warm weight.
"I know," he says. "I know."