[fic] Any Excuse (SGA)
TITLE: Any Excuse
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: (Stargate: Atlantis) Some groping, a wedding, and an adoption. Not in that order.
14 Valentines: Women and Work
John sighed. The negotiations were not going as planned.
"Adults only," the old woman said.
Huh? If anything, Teyla was the most mature of all of them; earlier that day John had actually had to threaten to turn the jumper around if Rodney didn't stop complaining, and Ford . . .
"I assure you," Teyla said patiently, "I do hold the full rights and responsibilities of an Athosian adult, and--"
"If you were, you'd be married," said the crone, pointing at Teyla--well, Teyla's chest--with one crooked finger. "Look at your breasts."
Rodney, Ford, and John all suddenly became very interested in the structure of the hut, because oh God, the old woman was reaching out and groping Teyla.
"You haven't even had any children! How can you be an adult?"
Rodney was overcome by a coughing fit, and over the choking the slightly younger headman said, "If you were to be married--" and here John realized that they had completely lost control of the situation--"we would of course be honored to include you in our trade negotiations. But--are you related to these men? Adopted by their people?"
This is how we Take Control, John thought. "Yes," he said firmly. "I've adopted her. She's my sister."
The headman's face fell. "Then of course you cannot marry her. And the others, adopted brothers also? There are several eligible men in the village who--"
John grinned at him. "May we have a minute to discuss this?"
***
John was allowed to attend Teyla during the preparations for the wedding: always a bridesmaid, he thought, because the day just wasn't weird enough. About five old women shuffled into the hut after them, brandishing little pots of pigment, chanting and painting whorls and dots and lines over Teyla's arms and neck and face.
They were attempting to help Teyla into a wispy, billowing garment like the better kind of Marilyn Monroe movie when she suddenly said, "Thank you, I will finish preparations on my own. I would like to spend time in quiet reflection." As though she hadn't been completly silent the entire time.
The old women backed out of the hut, still chanting and plucking at John's sleeve.
"My . . . brother may stay," Teyla informed them, as dignified as a person could be with indigo fingerprints all over her, and John took his hand off his sidearm.
"Don't go touching the paint," the wrinkliest woman said with a horrible wink. "It smears."
He turned to the wall while Teyla finished getting into the dress.
"This happened kind of fast," he said to the wall, mostly so that the only sound wouldn't be rustling. "You sure you're okay with it?"
Although if he'd learned anything about Teyla Emmagen, it was that if she wasn't fully okay with something she would let you know. Quickly.
"Among my people," she started, "marriages of convenience are not uncommon. It is also understood that when one is among foreigners, one acts in accord with their custom. Doctor McKay need not worry about this particular custom being taken back through the Stargate with us."
There was a final rustle. "I believe I am ready."
***
John didn't remember the ceremony.
At least, that's what he put in the mission report.
***
The old woman was right--the paint certainly did smear. McKay's palms were pretty much blue, as were Teyla's, and no amount of washing was removing the color.
"Great," Rodney said, giving up scrubbing and throwing the rag into the water. "I'm going to spend about a week looking like I felt up the cultural attache. I'll either be the most revered or reviled man on Atlantis."
Thankfully, Teyla's spots had come off. "They'll only know it was her if you tell them," John said sensibly. "Which you are not going to do, because this did not happen."
"Yes, Major, I most certainly was not made to wear the bastard child of a bat cape and an umbrella; I was never blessed with holy cat piss or whatever the hell it was for fertility; and I definitely did not have some primitive chemical catalyst painted onto my palms thus leaving them blue!" He was almost starting to froth.
"You finished?" John said, raising his eyebrows. "There's feasting, if you're finished."
Rodney's face softened. "Ooh, with the little grapey things?"
John nodded, and they headed back to where low tables were piled high with soft cheeses and dark-sauced meats and little grapey things, people whirling dancing through and waving streamers at the happy couple.
***
The next morning, John smirked at Rodney before they even sat down to the negotiating table (and more importantly, while Teyla was out of the hut).
Rodney glared at John. "Yes," he said like he was even then plotting to kill John, "it was everything I'd ever dreamed of."
He paused. "On the bright side, you're now my brother-in-law. Cash wedding presents are accepted and in no way tacky."
"I'm getting you a toaster," John said, pushing up his sunglasses to rub his eyes. It was too early in the morning to be related to Rodney McKay. "A crappy one."
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: (Stargate: Atlantis) Some groping, a wedding, and an adoption. Not in that order.
14 Valentines: Women and Work
John sighed. The negotiations were not going as planned.
"Adults only," the old woman said.
Huh? If anything, Teyla was the most mature of all of them; earlier that day John had actually had to threaten to turn the jumper around if Rodney didn't stop complaining, and Ford . . .
"I assure you," Teyla said patiently, "I do hold the full rights and responsibilities of an Athosian adult, and--"
"If you were, you'd be married," said the crone, pointing at Teyla--well, Teyla's chest--with one crooked finger. "Look at your breasts."
Rodney, Ford, and John all suddenly became very interested in the structure of the hut, because oh God, the old woman was reaching out and groping Teyla.
"You haven't even had any children! How can you be an adult?"
Rodney was overcome by a coughing fit, and over the choking the slightly younger headman said, "If you were to be married--" and here John realized that they had completely lost control of the situation--"we would of course be honored to include you in our trade negotiations. But--are you related to these men? Adopted by their people?"
This is how we Take Control, John thought. "Yes," he said firmly. "I've adopted her. She's my sister."
The headman's face fell. "Then of course you cannot marry her. And the others, adopted brothers also? There are several eligible men in the village who--"
John grinned at him. "May we have a minute to discuss this?"
***
John was allowed to attend Teyla during the preparations for the wedding: always a bridesmaid, he thought, because the day just wasn't weird enough. About five old women shuffled into the hut after them, brandishing little pots of pigment, chanting and painting whorls and dots and lines over Teyla's arms and neck and face.
They were attempting to help Teyla into a wispy, billowing garment like the better kind of Marilyn Monroe movie when she suddenly said, "Thank you, I will finish preparations on my own. I would like to spend time in quiet reflection." As though she hadn't been completly silent the entire time.
The old women backed out of the hut, still chanting and plucking at John's sleeve.
"My . . . brother may stay," Teyla informed them, as dignified as a person could be with indigo fingerprints all over her, and John took his hand off his sidearm.
"Don't go touching the paint," the wrinkliest woman said with a horrible wink. "It smears."
He turned to the wall while Teyla finished getting into the dress.
"This happened kind of fast," he said to the wall, mostly so that the only sound wouldn't be rustling. "You sure you're okay with it?"
Although if he'd learned anything about Teyla Emmagen, it was that if she wasn't fully okay with something she would let you know. Quickly.
"Among my people," she started, "marriages of convenience are not uncommon. It is also understood that when one is among foreigners, one acts in accord with their custom. Doctor McKay need not worry about this particular custom being taken back through the Stargate with us."
There was a final rustle. "I believe I am ready."
***
John didn't remember the ceremony.
At least, that's what he put in the mission report.
***
The old woman was right--the paint certainly did smear. McKay's palms were pretty much blue, as were Teyla's, and no amount of washing was removing the color.
"Great," Rodney said, giving up scrubbing and throwing the rag into the water. "I'm going to spend about a week looking like I felt up the cultural attache. I'll either be the most revered or reviled man on Atlantis."
Thankfully, Teyla's spots had come off. "They'll only know it was her if you tell them," John said sensibly. "Which you are not going to do, because this did not happen."
"Yes, Major, I most certainly was not made to wear the bastard child of a bat cape and an umbrella; I was never blessed with holy cat piss or whatever the hell it was for fertility; and I definitely did not have some primitive chemical catalyst painted onto my palms thus leaving them blue!" He was almost starting to froth.
"You finished?" John said, raising his eyebrows. "There's feasting, if you're finished."
Rodney's face softened. "Ooh, with the little grapey things?"
John nodded, and they headed back to where low tables were piled high with soft cheeses and dark-sauced meats and little grapey things, people whirling dancing through and waving streamers at the happy couple.
***
The next morning, John smirked at Rodney before they even sat down to the negotiating table (and more importantly, while Teyla was out of the hut).
Rodney glared at John. "Yes," he said like he was even then plotting to kill John, "it was everything I'd ever dreamed of."
He paused. "On the bright side, you're now my brother-in-law. Cash wedding presents are accepted and in no way tacky."
"I'm getting you a toaster," John said, pushing up his sunglasses to rub his eyes. It was too early in the morning to be related to Rodney McKay. "A crappy one."