Fic: C. pegasi (for week 1 prompt: Coffee)
Jun. 4th, 2011 04:39 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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sga_saturdayTitle: C. pegasi
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mezzo_cammin
Genre: Slash (John/Rodney/Ronon), future fic
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Words: 1602
Summary: Atlantis is on their own now. They have new rules, new relationships, and an ace up their sleeve.
Prompt : Coffee.
Beta: The lovely and gracioustrillingstar
It never failed. They'd gate from a planet bathed in mid-afternoon sunlight, to be met by subdued lighting and a semi-deserted gate room. Rodney would freeze, mind racing through at least ten possible catastrophic scenarios before the rest of his brain caught up; he'd realize that it was well past midnight on Atlantis, that the lights were dimmed per John's standing orders, and his adrenaline-fueled jitters were his own damned fault.
He'd mentioned this to John once. John had shrugged and said that the same thing happened to him, too. They'd dubbed it 'gate-lag,' then put the term into the training protocols for new recruits, listed in the woefully short "Don't Worry, This is Normal" section.
A few weeks ago, they'd gated home from a series of routine trade negotiations to find Atlantis in the hands of enemies who shot first and asked questions later, so Rodney thought he could be forgiven this time for instinctively jerking to a standstill, thumbing the safety off his weapon, and reaching for his radio. Beside him, he heard the whisper of Ronon's knife as it was unsheathed, in a show of weapon-wielding solidarity.
"Relax, Rodney," John said, slow and easy, his index finger tapping softly on Rodney's wrist. "'s all right."
"Yeah, McKay," Ronon said, returning the knife to his scabbard with a flourish. "Chill." He bumped his shoulder into Rodney's, jostling him sideways into John. John steadied him, his hand lingering on Rodney's forearm with warm familiarity.
"Okay?" John asked.
Rodney nodded.
"Good." John clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder. "Put the safety back on."
Ignoring Ronon's snicker, Rodney did as directed, turning to watch John stroll over and give a brief report to the lone gate tech. If she'd noticed Rodney's jumpiness, she gave no sign of it while logging their return into the database and entering the code that would unlock the ready room. John could call Rodney a paranoid bastard all he wanted; these new protocols were necessary.
The memory of the crude, but effective, booby traps they’d found scattered throughout Atlantis after the invasion was still fresh in his mind, and Rodney shivered involuntarily as they stepped inside the room. Divesting himself of overcoat and weaponry was easy, but Rodney fumbled with the strap of his heavily-laden pack, trying to pull it off one shoulder, when Ronon came up behind him and gently lifted it from his back. Ronon hefted the bag once, wincing as he lowered it carefully to the floor.
"Good haul," Ronon said.
Rodney nodded, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension that had settled there. He glanced over at John, who was leaning his head against a locker, practically asleep on his feet. Rodney tapped John's shoulder and waited until he had eased around enough so that Rodney could perform the same service for him. Rodney smiled tightly at John's groan of relief.
Despite three broken ribs that were a long way from being healed, Ronon had insisted on coming with them for the last harvest of the season. It was his turn in the rotation, and there had been no talking him out of it. Rodney and John had split the weight of Ronon's share of the harvest between them, and each had suffered silently for it. Well. One of them had suffered more silently than the other, and Rodney's lips curled at the irony. He resisted the urge to raise his fingers to his throat, yet again. It would heal or it wouldn't, and touching the still-tender scar wasn't going to help. His voice would return. Carson said so. For once, Rodney was going to take him at his word.
It had been a really good harvest. That was what mattered.
They undressed with minimum fuss, and none of their usual trash talk. Rodney would have preferred a long soak in his tub, but current protocol demanded both a shower and disinfection after every off-world mission. Rodney hadn't had the heart to even tease John about that one, after the no-see-ums on S'tycal had taken weeks to get rid of… from their hair.
John and Rodney lugged the packs into the shower room, dumping them in the corner where they couldn't be tampered with, then they all made a beeline for the communal stalls.
Rodney lathered up with the Athosian herbal soap, taking his time, his fingers moving carefully over old battle scars and fresh wounds. On either side of him, John and Ronon did the same. They took turns washing each other's backs, and it was a testament to how tired they all were that the touches remained chaste. By the time the disinfecting unit was whirring them dry, Rodney would have given his second-favorite laptop in exchange for a soft bed, a warm body at his back, and the corner of a pillow. Christ, he was done in.
Done in, but not done yet, unfortunately.
Back in the ready room, dressed in soft t-shirts and Athosian trousers, Rodney and Ronon stood side-by-side near the door while John radioed Teyla to tell her that they were back, and that they were safe. While he spoke to her, a teasing, happy edge to his voice, Ronon and Rodney signed rapidly at one another. As much as Rodney normally moved his hands when talking, he'd never had to actually use them to speak before. It frustrated him beyond measure. The team had developed a short form that worked for them, and once Ronon had mastered it, he seemed to enjoy speaking in a 'secret' language. Rodney was happy to indulge him.
Rodney gestured at John and signed, "Make sure he gets some sleep. No patrols tonight."
Ronon nodded. "I will. Hey, Rodney."
Huffing impatiently, Rodney twirled his fingers in a 'keep going' gesture, universally understood, he was sure, even by bratty Satedans.
Ronon continued. "You, too. Okay? You need-"
"Geez, will you two give it a rest, already?" John interrupted them, swatting at their hands. "Teyla's sending her people over to make the exchange. And I'm ordering you," John poked a finger at Rodney's chest in emphasis, "to get some sleep once they're gone."
"Yes, dear," Rodney signed. He made a shooing motion when John signed back with his middle finger. Ronon grinned and tugged John out of the room, arm slung over his shoulders. Rodney heard them clomping down the corridor, John's voice gravelly with fatigue and Ronon's deep rumble laced with laughter.
~~~
Waiting until he was sure he was alone, Rodney lifted one of the packs onto the bench and opened it, diving in with both hands, running his fingers through the contents, and cupping the bright red cherries in his palms. Plucking one up, he split it open with his thumbnails, through the tough outer core and into the sweet, juicy fruit, then all the way down to the two small, bluish-green beans inside.
Coffee.
Real, honest-to-God, Earth coffee.
They were growing it, in five different varieties, on an unnamed, uninhabited planet (carefully purged from the database), and it had proved to be worth a thousand times its weight at every bartering table on every planet in the Pegasus galaxy. Rodney had predicted as much, during the furtive late-night planning sessions back on Earth.
Rodney sat guard over the coffee for nearly an hour, nodding off and then jerking his chin up countless times, before three Athosian youths slipped inside the room. He greeted them each by name, and in the traditional fashion, before exchanging the packs for a linen bag roughly the size of his fist.
When they were gone, Rodney raised the bag to his nose and inhaled deeply, eyes closed, blissful.
~ ~ ~
Rodney pushed at John's thighs, trying to lever him out of his loose-limbed sprawl and onto his side. There wasn't much room to maneuver, since Ronon took up way more than a third of the bed, but Rodney was determined. He'd be damned if he was sleeping on the floor tonight. John shifted, flung an arm out, and nearly hit Rodney in the eye.
"Move, damn it," Rodney rasped, reaching the end of his endurance. At the sound of Rodney's voice, Ronon's eyes blinked open, his teeth gleaming white in the moonlit room as he grinned. There was movement beneath the covers, a slow slide and a wriggle, and then Ronon's hand emerged, beckoning Rodney to join them. John rose up on an elbow and stared groggily at him.
"You say something?" John asked, voice hoarse, whether from sleep or repressed emotion, Rodney couldn't tell.
"Scoot. Over." It was more of a rusty, disused croak than a voice, but John's face lit up as though Rodney had handed him a ZPM.
John moved back, obligingly holding the blanket up so that Rodney could slide in, his back to John. Wasting no time, John spooned up behind him, wedging a knee between Rodney's, and slinging an arm over his chest. His fingers found Rodney's and entwined with them. Rodney felt the bed shift, and then Ronon's strong hand landed atop theirs, squeezing softly. By morning, they'd be a tangle of limbs and misplaced elbows, but they always went to sleep like this, on the good days. Always.
"Mmmm," Rodney sighed, filled with contentment.
"G'night," John murmured, burying his nose against Rodney's neck. "Mmm. Wait. Is that-? Did you-?"
Rodney turned toward him, just enough so that John could nose against his cheek and press a soft kiss to Rodney's coffee-flavored lips.
"Mmmhmm," Rodney whispered smugly.
He fell asleep a heartbeat later, with John's breath on his face and Ronon's arms wrapped tightly around the two of them.
Author:
mezzo_camminGenre: Slash (John/Rodney/Ronon), future fic
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Words: 1602
Summary: Atlantis is on their own now. They have new rules, new relationships, and an ace up their sleeve.
Prompt : Coffee.
Beta: The lovely and gracious
trillingstarIt never failed. They'd gate from a planet bathed in mid-afternoon sunlight, to be met by subdued lighting and a semi-deserted gate room. Rodney would freeze, mind racing through at least ten possible catastrophic scenarios before the rest of his brain caught up; he'd realize that it was well past midnight on Atlantis, that the lights were dimmed per John's standing orders, and his adrenaline-fueled jitters were his own damned fault.
He'd mentioned this to John once. John had shrugged and said that the same thing happened to him, too. They'd dubbed it 'gate-lag,' then put the term into the training protocols for new recruits, listed in the woefully short "Don't Worry, This is Normal" section.
A few weeks ago, they'd gated home from a series of routine trade negotiations to find Atlantis in the hands of enemies who shot first and asked questions later, so Rodney thought he could be forgiven this time for instinctively jerking to a standstill, thumbing the safety off his weapon, and reaching for his radio. Beside him, he heard the whisper of Ronon's knife as it was unsheathed, in a show of weapon-wielding solidarity.
"Relax, Rodney," John said, slow and easy, his index finger tapping softly on Rodney's wrist. "'s all right."
"Yeah, McKay," Ronon said, returning the knife to his scabbard with a flourish. "Chill." He bumped his shoulder into Rodney's, jostling him sideways into John. John steadied him, his hand lingering on Rodney's forearm with warm familiarity.
"Okay?" John asked.
Rodney nodded.
"Good." John clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder. "Put the safety back on."
Ignoring Ronon's snicker, Rodney did as directed, turning to watch John stroll over and give a brief report to the lone gate tech. If she'd noticed Rodney's jumpiness, she gave no sign of it while logging their return into the database and entering the code that would unlock the ready room. John could call Rodney a paranoid bastard all he wanted; these new protocols were necessary.
The memory of the crude, but effective, booby traps they’d found scattered throughout Atlantis after the invasion was still fresh in his mind, and Rodney shivered involuntarily as they stepped inside the room. Divesting himself of overcoat and weaponry was easy, but Rodney fumbled with the strap of his heavily-laden pack, trying to pull it off one shoulder, when Ronon came up behind him and gently lifted it from his back. Ronon hefted the bag once, wincing as he lowered it carefully to the floor.
"Good haul," Ronon said.
Rodney nodded, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension that had settled there. He glanced over at John, who was leaning his head against a locker, practically asleep on his feet. Rodney tapped John's shoulder and waited until he had eased around enough so that Rodney could perform the same service for him. Rodney smiled tightly at John's groan of relief.
Despite three broken ribs that were a long way from being healed, Ronon had insisted on coming with them for the last harvest of the season. It was his turn in the rotation, and there had been no talking him out of it. Rodney and John had split the weight of Ronon's share of the harvest between them, and each had suffered silently for it. Well. One of them had suffered more silently than the other, and Rodney's lips curled at the irony. He resisted the urge to raise his fingers to his throat, yet again. It would heal or it wouldn't, and touching the still-tender scar wasn't going to help. His voice would return. Carson said so. For once, Rodney was going to take him at his word.
It had been a really good harvest. That was what mattered.
They undressed with minimum fuss, and none of their usual trash talk. Rodney would have preferred a long soak in his tub, but current protocol demanded both a shower and disinfection after every off-world mission. Rodney hadn't had the heart to even tease John about that one, after the no-see-ums on S'tycal had taken weeks to get rid of… from their hair.
John and Rodney lugged the packs into the shower room, dumping them in the corner where they couldn't be tampered with, then they all made a beeline for the communal stalls.
Rodney lathered up with the Athosian herbal soap, taking his time, his fingers moving carefully over old battle scars and fresh wounds. On either side of him, John and Ronon did the same. They took turns washing each other's backs, and it was a testament to how tired they all were that the touches remained chaste. By the time the disinfecting unit was whirring them dry, Rodney would have given his second-favorite laptop in exchange for a soft bed, a warm body at his back, and the corner of a pillow. Christ, he was done in.
Done in, but not done yet, unfortunately.
Back in the ready room, dressed in soft t-shirts and Athosian trousers, Rodney and Ronon stood side-by-side near the door while John radioed Teyla to tell her that they were back, and that they were safe. While he spoke to her, a teasing, happy edge to his voice, Ronon and Rodney signed rapidly at one another. As much as Rodney normally moved his hands when talking, he'd never had to actually use them to speak before. It frustrated him beyond measure. The team had developed a short form that worked for them, and once Ronon had mastered it, he seemed to enjoy speaking in a 'secret' language. Rodney was happy to indulge him.
Rodney gestured at John and signed, "Make sure he gets some sleep. No patrols tonight."
Ronon nodded. "I will. Hey, Rodney."
Huffing impatiently, Rodney twirled his fingers in a 'keep going' gesture, universally understood, he was sure, even by bratty Satedans.
Ronon continued. "You, too. Okay? You need-"
"Geez, will you two give it a rest, already?" John interrupted them, swatting at their hands. "Teyla's sending her people over to make the exchange. And I'm ordering you," John poked a finger at Rodney's chest in emphasis, "to get some sleep once they're gone."
"Yes, dear," Rodney signed. He made a shooing motion when John signed back with his middle finger. Ronon grinned and tugged John out of the room, arm slung over his shoulders. Rodney heard them clomping down the corridor, John's voice gravelly with fatigue and Ronon's deep rumble laced with laughter.
~~~
Waiting until he was sure he was alone, Rodney lifted one of the packs onto the bench and opened it, diving in with both hands, running his fingers through the contents, and cupping the bright red cherries in his palms. Plucking one up, he split it open with his thumbnails, through the tough outer core and into the sweet, juicy fruit, then all the way down to the two small, bluish-green beans inside.
Coffee.
Real, honest-to-God, Earth coffee.
They were growing it, in five different varieties, on an unnamed, uninhabited planet (carefully purged from the database), and it had proved to be worth a thousand times its weight at every bartering table on every planet in the Pegasus galaxy. Rodney had predicted as much, during the furtive late-night planning sessions back on Earth.
Rodney sat guard over the coffee for nearly an hour, nodding off and then jerking his chin up countless times, before three Athosian youths slipped inside the room. He greeted them each by name, and in the traditional fashion, before exchanging the packs for a linen bag roughly the size of his fist.
When they were gone, Rodney raised the bag to his nose and inhaled deeply, eyes closed, blissful.
~ ~ ~
Rodney pushed at John's thighs, trying to lever him out of his loose-limbed sprawl and onto his side. There wasn't much room to maneuver, since Ronon took up way more than a third of the bed, but Rodney was determined. He'd be damned if he was sleeping on the floor tonight. John shifted, flung an arm out, and nearly hit Rodney in the eye.
"Move, damn it," Rodney rasped, reaching the end of his endurance. At the sound of Rodney's voice, Ronon's eyes blinked open, his teeth gleaming white in the moonlit room as he grinned. There was movement beneath the covers, a slow slide and a wriggle, and then Ronon's hand emerged, beckoning Rodney to join them. John rose up on an elbow and stared groggily at him.
"You say something?" John asked, voice hoarse, whether from sleep or repressed emotion, Rodney couldn't tell.
"Scoot. Over." It was more of a rusty, disused croak than a voice, but John's face lit up as though Rodney had handed him a ZPM.
John moved back, obligingly holding the blanket up so that Rodney could slide in, his back to John. Wasting no time, John spooned up behind him, wedging a knee between Rodney's, and slinging an arm over his chest. His fingers found Rodney's and entwined with them. Rodney felt the bed shift, and then Ronon's strong hand landed atop theirs, squeezing softly. By morning, they'd be a tangle of limbs and misplaced elbows, but they always went to sleep like this, on the good days. Always.
"Mmmm," Rodney sighed, filled with contentment.
"G'night," John murmured, burying his nose against Rodney's neck. "Mmm. Wait. Is that-? Did you-?"
Rodney turned toward him, just enough so that John could nose against his cheek and press a soft kiss to Rodney's coffee-flavored lips.
"Mmmhmm," Rodney whispered smugly.
He fell asleep a heartbeat later, with John's breath on his face and Ronon's arms wrapped tightly around the two of them.
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