It Stops Being Funny At Skirts (Ficlet)
Author: svmadelyn@yahoo.com
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Rodney, John
Notes: I am not one to normally post birthday wishes (I feel badly because I know I won’t manage to get everyone and so I just send e-cards, and then sometimes I forget to send THOSE) but ANYWAY, wow, fannish convergence that simply must be mentioned.
Happy Birthday to three of the most fantastic, talented women around — thecaelum, thisisbone, scribblinlenore, I’m so happy you’re all here! Best wishes always. I was just going to post the wishes this morning, but then I thought to myself–hey! They’ve all read your story! And Lenore mentioned it in New York, and Caelum made a cover and Bone wrote sequels, so CLEARLY that was Fate telling me I needed to try to write a tiny something for them.
And who the heck am I to deny Fate really. Unbetaed 600-ish words of It Stops Being Funny At Skirts, Rodney POV, taking place on Day Ten.
Hands, hands, focus on the hands, Rodney told himself for the third time in the last twenty minutes.
The only problem was that the hands were nearly as fascinating as the cleavage. The long fingers tapped idly on his side in the same pattern as Sheppard’s had, only lighter, nails catching on Rodney’s blanket every now and again.
Think unsexy thoughts. Unsexy. Look at Sylvester Stallone. Unsexy! John’s head was lolling off to the side, just a bit, and Rodney shifted his shoulder so he could bear its weight. If John decided to move closer. Which he wasn’t, Rodney sighed.
John giggled at something on Rambo; what, Rodney’d probably never know. Rodney had seen this movie four times with him and he still had never managed to pay attention enough to really get what it was about–guy, drifters, beating, mines, M60, lots of violence, but usually after about ten minutes, John takes on the role of Rambo in Rodney’s imagination so it’s a very natural thing that Rodney gets sidetracked.
A little tickle of breath is teasing the hair around Rodney’s neck and Rodney slid the laptop a little closer, glad as he always was for its positioning on movie nights with John.
“Rodney?” John asked sleepily.
“Hmm?” Rodney tried to look not nearly as hyperaware as he felt but, really. John! In a girl body. Every time he looked at him, it was hard not to double-take like the first time–supremely freaky, but supremely cool, tinged with a bit of: Thank God, two inches closer on Mevigian and he’d have breasts and….other things, and he wouldn’t carry it off nearly as well as John, no, no, also.
“Thanks,” John said simply.
“Huh? For what?” Rodney asked, genuinely confused.
“Last few days have been a little rough. And you’ve been stand-up,” John smiled, apparently not noticing that he’d decided to take advantage of Rodney’s shoulder after all.
Rodney felt like a tool. Stand-up. Ogling his friend, his *teammate*’s ill-gotten cleavage. And hands.
And legs. And eyelashes. Damn it.
“Uh. Don’t mention it,” Rodney told him.
John slid closer, pressed tightly across Rodney’s side, and Rodney was probably going to have to find a way to nix the movie nights until Carson fixed this one because someone (Cadman, she was the only one lippy enough to pull it off) had apparently lent John citrus shampoo (what, his boy shampoo that Rodney had already firmly decided wasn’t sexy in the slightest wasn’t good enough for him now that he was a girl?), and it just wasn’t right that something lethal in origin should smell this fucking good.
Rambo kept playing, and Rodney managed to angle the laptop just right so he could watch John’s sleeping face in the reflection of the monitor, dark hair curling around his cheek, thin, tired face obviously untroubled finally. Rodney caught a hint of blue on John’s upper arm (What was with the bra? Couldn’t it be white? And matronly? And dignified, and not in Rodney’s favorite color? Couldn’t the straps just stop hanging over Sheppard’s shoulder every now and again? Cadman was such a freak) Rodney bit his lip, deftly tucked the intriguing fabric back underneath John’s shirt and pressed ’stop’. He slid the laptop into place on his nightstand, and eased away from John, fingers not-so-accidentally brushing through John’s hair on the way.
Okay. Maybe movie nights didn’t have to end. Rodney could certainly take one for the team.
John never had to know there was a decided lack of stand-up scientists on this base.