Work Text:
Rodney
There’s a yellow sun riding high in the sky and even a couple of moons up there too, still visible at noon-day. Waves of pollen drift above the fields, puffing from high, green hedges in wisps, turbulent surges rolling gently across the meadows. Insects chirp and the warm air shimmers above the bright, grassy fronds.
PZ8-477’s gate is situated in a really very pretty little valley. Funny how in Pegasus we never have the time to stop and smell the roses, thinks Rodney with silent sarcasm, his boots pounding along the path to the Stargate, his arms pumping.
Rodney has already had the general aura of pastoral idyll thoroughly ruined by his allergies; the grass, while picturesque, is waist high, and on top of a morning spent sneezing, to crown this shitty, shitty day, now here they are, running for their lives. He doesn’t know why. The locals had taken objection to some inanity from Daniel Jackson, probably.
Or something he’d said himself. It wasn’t too clear.
This, thinks Rodney, is what comes of letting Sheppard convince him to play host to the Milky Way’s most accident prone archaeologist. He knew it would all end in tears.
“Well, this is fun as always,” observes the dry, hated voice belonging to the person in question, sprinting along on his left. Rodney spares the energy to roll his streaming eyes, even if no-one will see.
“Yes, because what I love more than anything is a refreshing afternoon running away from spear wielding natives!” yells Rodney, lungs heaving. Every part of his body that’s not oozing, burns. He throws a glance over his shoulder. Behind them, the faster members of the village are gaining ground. Rodney coaxes some more speed from his aching legs.
“You hear yourself when you say stuff like that, right?” asks Daniel, “I mean, you can hear the words come out of your mouth. Do you even have cultural sensitivity training in the Pegasus Galaxy or has the rest of the expedition just given you up as a dead loss?”
Daniel’s voice is short, but barely out of breath and Rodney hates it and him just a little more, as if that were possible.
Sheppard had told Rodney his dislike of Dr. Jackson was irrational; Rodney considers it irrational in the mathematical sense: endless, un-repeating, a fathomless potential stretching to infinity.
“Remind me why I agreed to work with you again?” puffs Rodney.
“Sure, why you agreed to work with me,” growls Daniel, under his laboured breath.
Oh, yeah, thinks Rodney, this afternoon is just perfect.
===
Daniel
Same old, different galaxy, mutters the part of Daniel’s brain that’s always commenting on everything else, the part that gets given voice much less often than Jack suspects, but far more often than Jack likes.
The other parts of Daniel’s brain are busy dealing with his bodily predicament - crouching in the grass out of the way of the Stargate’s splash zone and trying to lay down cover fire without actually hurting their pursuers, who are surely well-meaning in their over-reaction to either a) a simple question about the sainted Ancestors, b) an inadvertent brutal insult to the core of their society’s identity or c) whatever it was that Rodney McKay did behind Daniel’s back without asking. Behind him, McKay dials the DHD.
The spray of bullets from Daniel’s Atlantis-issue P90 seem to be deterring even the most zealous of the offended residents so far, but he’s not going to have ammo forever.
“Should be an easy day, Doc,” Colonel Sheppard had said to him as they’d geared up, around 14:00 Atlantis Time, “These guys are low-tech but so far we’ve found they’re pretty chill. Nothing you and McKay can’t handle on your own. No sense borrowing trouble though; full gear and radio in every half hour.”
Daniel spares a moment to thank Sheppard for having a proportionate approach to mission risk assessment, as he watches clods of earth dance under his bullets. The wormhole engages behind him and McKay yells, “Just a minute!” as he fumbles for his tag and his radio. Daniel just about stops himself muttering, “For crying out loud,” as he’s not about to admit to picking it up off Jack, who in any case could probably consider it a potential patent infringement.
Atlantis is dream come true, years in the making, he reminds himself. Being in the City of the Ancients, a wealth of data and history he’d never get to the end of in a hundred lifetimes, it’s a wonder, every day, even in comparison with a career pretty damn full of wonders already.
McKay, speaking of wonder amongst wonders, transmits his IDC and gets the all clear just as the quickest of the local sprinters reach the gate platform. McKay stumbles through the gate, his wide eyes showing white all the way around.
Easy day, my foot, Daniel tells himself, the last sight of the planet a gang of angry faces as he flings himself backwards through the event horizon and lets the wormhole tug him back to Atlantis.
===
Jack
The last rays of sunset strike the stained glass of the control tower and dapple the Gate Room floor with patterns in orange and turquoise. Jack can admit that Atlantis, superficially, is prettier than the Mountain. Doesn’t mean it can’t dole out days just as crappy as good ol’ Earth does, a galaxy away. He grips the railing on the balcony and sighs, with more relief than he’s planning on owning, as two scientists tumble through the ring and the connection winks out.
In the room below, Daniel is yelling something about McKay’s ‘entitled post-colonial attitude problem’ and McKay himself is red in the face, blustering incomprehensibly, making stabbing finger gestures at Daniel between loosening his tac-vest and catching his breath. Jack makes out the words ‘cultural sensitivity’ being batted back and forth, and winces. Jack never had cultural sensitivity training, but he’s had Daniel around for a decade or so now - so he could theoretically qualify for a post-graduate certification, at least in accumulated hours served.
“Woolsey wants a report in fifteen, so break it up, kids,” Jack calls down, in the hope that bloodshed will be avoided.
“Oh, sure,” snaps Dr. McKay, looking up. “Tell me again why the two people with allergies were sent to the pollen planet?” He’s unhooking his P90 and handing it over to a patient Marine, while behind him Daniel rolls his eyes heavenwards. Colonel Sheppard strolls over to dust off McKay and, apparently, check for damages to what he considers his property. Jack winces to himself. Honestly, some things it’s just better not to think about for a whole boatload of reasons.
“So that’s another planet we’re going to have to blacklist in the database,” gripes McKay, still talking. Yup. Not a good day, thinks Jack.
He knows this because on a good day, he can understand why Sheppard hasn’t yet pushed McKay off a tower and called it an accident in the field.
Atlantis is a dangerous place, it could happen.
Jack upbraids himself, watching Atlantis’ best, most obnoxious brain bicker with his own, mildly less insufferable, scientist. Jack can be the better man. McKay is useful to have around and sure, he’s no Carter, but he may, may, have saved their lives a few times. Sheppard can keep him.
But the constant noise though. And what he, Jack, will never understand is that he, Sheppard, seems to like it.
He likes it.
He’s an odd duck, is Sheppard.
Jack watches as the Colonel himself hauls McKay off to the locker room. Daniel follows, but not before looking up and giving Jack a little wry smile, a waggle of his fingers. Jack nods back. Yeah, okay; he should reassess. Everyone got home in once piece, by SGC standards that’s gotta mean today’s not that bad after all.
===
John
After the briefing, dinner in the mess with Teyla and Ronon, and a meandering walk back to Rodney’s quarters, John’s leaning propped against the bathroom door and watching Rodney fail to pick up after himself as he potters around. He’s supposed to be digging out the movie laptop so they can watch District Nine, but instead he’s flailing his hands and getting worked up over nothing. Or over Daniel Jackson. Honestly, this fixation is unhealthy; it’s good John’s not the jealous type. Mostly.
“I swear, Sheppard, this is the last time, the last time, I go anywhere with that, with that, that…”
“Archaeologist?” asks John, which gets him a glare.
“Patronising, pseudo-superior, holier-than-thou…”
John interrupts him. He’s had a long day and he’s honestly got better things to do than listen to Rodney complain about their two visitors. Again. It’s not like Rodney’s in John’s position; having to play host to his bosses’ boss and trying to look efficient and in control. “They’re here for another month, McKay, suck it up. I’m not putting up with four more weeks of you and Dr. Jackson scuffling in the labs, in the field, in the gate room. If this carries on, I’m seriously considering saying yes to that little island community that wanted to keep you for a month to fix their rainwater collection systems. Play nice, that’s final. Even if he is a dick.”
Rodney’s big, blue eyes pop. “What? I thought you liked him!”
“Eh,” John shrugs, “It’s not like he’s my favourite.”
“You said my dislike was irrational!” Rodney accuses him.
“Well, yeah,” says John. “Like Pi. Goes on and on to no end in particular.”
Rodney pauses. “Wait, that’s what you meant?” he asks, blinking.
“I meant for you to shut up about it, but I also made the leap to math, yes.” John reckon’s they’re on safer territory here. He’s gotten some pretty good milage in the past out of playing the math card - resulting in some of their best work, if he does say so himself. Rodney’s still frowning, but John’s not done. “Irrational: the ratio of two incommensurate lengths, in this case those lengths…”
“Yes, about those lengths,” croaks Rodney, crossing the room in three strides to shove his tongue down John’s throat. Mission accomplished, oh yeah.
Rodney breaks it off to hold John at the reach of his arms, giving him a considering look. “God, you’re hot,” he says.
"Thank you,” says John. He allows himself a perky tilt of the head and a smirk.
“Oh, I intend to,” says Rodney, stripping efficiently.
“I’m fine, by the way, not that you’ve asked,” says John, leaning back against the wall and enjoying the view.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Rodney, switching his attention to John, his fingers making quick work of the buttons on his uniform. “How remiss of me. How was your day, dear?”
John steps forward and slaps the back of Rodney’s head, ‘cause there’s no way he’s letting that one slide, before pulling him in by the back of the neck for a kiss that’s rough enough to set the tone for the evening.
“It’s looking up,” says John.