Post-ep for “Agent Afloat,” and Hoyden suggested I title this something to do with sloppy seconds, just for truth in advertising, but I just don’t think I could do that to myself. I mean you guys. Really. Anyway, SUPER NC-17.
All right, this might be avoidance.
Quick post-SWAK missing scene for NCIS, technically gen, but I mean, come on:
Suffice it to say, things are not going well: my note in my bio page on lj telling everybody that the journal has gone private, not friends-locked is being ignored (GUYS STOP EMAILING ME ABOUT IT ALL IT DOES IT MAKE ME FEEL GUILTY AND THEREFORE HATE YOU); my job is–wow, just ass, talking about it makes me cry, etc. etc., we should all feel bad for Hetrez because she has to listen to me bitch endlessly.
SO! FOLKS!  MORE REGENCY SGA!!!! (For previous SGA regency related wrongs, click here.)
Rodney’s plan of seducing John with sexy twin-engine aircraft and designer lofts crashes and burns around the 40th time John whines, “Come oooooon, Rodney,” and Rodney shouts, “Okay! Fine! I will do your fucking taxes!”
“Oh my God,” he says around a mouthful a pudding. It’s his fourth cup, and he should stop — Keller keeps making these noises about his cholesterol — but he just can’t get over it. “Oh, my God.”
“What?” Ronon grunts at him, peering down at the paperwork. “I don’t get it.”
“Of course you don’t,” Rodney snaps, stabbing a ballpoint onto the page. “These are taxes! These are John Sheppard’s taxes. These are John Sheppard’s taxes and he’s paying more in just capital gains than the entire sovereign nation of Canada!”
Ronon blinks at him. “What’s that mean?” he asks.
“It means Sheppard’s rich beyond your wildest dreams!” Rodney hisses.
“Oh,” Ronon says, shrugging. “That part I knew.”
Rodney chokes on his spoon.
“He also has a pony,” Ronon adds, twisting the knife.
“Yes,” Teyla says, claiming the seat next to Rodney. “I believe he told me that it was named Duchess Jasmine, but would not explain to me why he would prefer I not share that information with the others on the expedition.”
Rodney put his head down on the table and tries not to think about how John could probably personally solve the Canadian commercial paper debacle by writing some personal checks, but it’s hard. It sends Rodney’s entire carefully-plotted life plan out of whack, it’s pointless to buy Sheppard shiny things as leverage for ass when Sheppard could buy his own shiny things and have the asses of high class escorts and ladies who want to legitimately have sex with him anyway. It’s all so hopeless Rodney could cry. No wonder John had looked unimpressed by the ring Rodney had bought Katie: John could probably pay Superman to crush the ashes of the last Do Do bird into a diamond the size of Rodney’s left testicle.
“I did not understand exactly, though,” Teyla goes on, “where John made his fortune. Is his a family of merchants?”
“I guess,” Ronon says. “He said his dad sold utilities. Power and stuff.”
“Fuck!” Rodney says, mostly to himself. This is terrible. That is practically recession-proof. He wonders if Sheppard’s family business employs mark-to-market accounting or has shell companies in the Cayman Islands.
….Wow. I just realized that the number of nerdy accounting jokes in there could kill a yak.
Today, I bit off the head of a Santa Clause gummy sucker and gnawed at it for like, half an hour thinking about all the wasted thousands of dollars in dental work that would have to be redone with the magic of invisilines (it’s hard enough to be taken seriously as a chick who wears t-shirts and jeans in my business without you know, braces at 23, yo) when I have insurance again sometime in the distant future.
Also, I recalled, vaguely, a conversation I had with somebody (I seriously do not remember who) about the horrible mission reports Sheppard must write up. I mean, seriously — think about it. John’s totally the type to check all the boxes and fill in all the ovals and then write something in the summary section like, “We went to the village. There was a pony,” and then fail to elaborate. Maybe it’s some sort of conservation of blather rule or something because I bet McKay’s mission reports are all 20 pages long at the short end of the spectrum.
Of course, this also got me thinking about specific episodes:
“Childhood’s End”: Wraith shield discovered; McKay made bad Lost Boy jokes.
“The Brotherhood”: We got a ZPM, then McKay hit puberty, and we lost it. Genii continue to suck.
“Underground”: Beckett found love. Didn’t work out. New rule: scientists shouldn’t date.
“Condemned”: We went to the city. Then we wore collars. (See McKay’s attached note re: chafing.)
Just IMAGING having to read these things professionally makes me want to cry.
Oh, and also, a snippet, for those of you who were rooting for SGA/Bones AU:
At some point, once I finish with all the snapshot comments over on lj, I will be making an index post linking here, until then — this is what happens when I have five free minutes at work:
SGA, version X-FilesÂ
“So what’s it like, working with the space cadet?”
Rodney froze, a hand stilling on the wall.
“Cam,” Sheppard said, sounding annoyed, and Rodney swallowed a groan — Mitchell, he thought, anybody but Mitchell.
“Come on, Shep, the guy is a legend,” Mitchell continued, and Rodney heard a rustling a cloth, footsteps, and he peered around the corner in time to see Mitchell trap John against a wall, palm next to Sheppard’s face, too close. And suddenly Rodney remembered that he wasn’t the only one subject to rumors — that even before John had knocked on the door to the basement office, Rodney had heard of him, in wry, crooked grins, with whispers.
“Hey, come on, John,” Mitchell crooned, voice pitched soft and private, “you know I’d have you back in violent crimes in a heartbeat if I could swing it.”
Sheppard got that look on his face — like if Cam didn’t get away from him he was about to punch somebody else in the face, and Rodney thought the last thing the FBI needed was to have Sheppard leading tourgroups around the building, so he cleared his throat and stepped back into the room.
“Mitchell,” he said, “when did you get assigned this case?”
Cam pushed himself away from the wall, unconcerned to be caught, and still langurous, untouchable — still the bureau’s golden boy. “Hey, Spacey — it’s been a while.”
Rodney felt his mouth tighten, turn down at the corners, but before he could say anything, he felt John’s hand on his elbow, catching his attention. “Hey, McKay,” he said, glaring at Cam. “Mitchell was just leaving — and I got something in the photos I think you should see.”
“Oh, good to know,” Rodney chirped, and pulled on a pair of gloves. “By the way, we’ve got a second crime scene in the janitor’s closet.”
It turns out the assistant did it, and when John goes to bring her in, she comes quietly, dressed too-lightly for the October cold in a rose-printed robe. Before she ever explains what their victim had been doing to her, before she pulls up the sleeves of her robe and shows John the fingerprints and bruises, John is already draping his trenchcoat over her shoulders, ushering her gently to the car. His hands are gentle with the cuffs, and he touches her head as he helps her into the backseat.
“You’re such a soft touch, Sheppard,” Rodney sighs later, after.
“Like I didn’t see you getting her coffee from your stash earlier,” John replies, flip, and shuts down his computer. “I’m heading out — I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Rodney waits outside John’s apartment for four hours that night, sitting in the dark listening to traffic and wind and distant voices, until he sees the light in John’s bedroom window go on — and then he finally drives away, back to work, sequestering himself until morning.
*
John came by his bureau posting honestly — ex-Air Force to L.A. office to D.C. in five whirlwind years. He’s a little disaffected and too shy, and Rodney thinks John was the kind of guy who was unremarkable until attractiveness hit him like a baseball bat in grad school — but by then it was too late for Sheppard to be comfortable in that skin, so long overlooked. Rodney knows the rumors about why John got dispatched to the basement: sexual harassment magnet, people say, bureau retributory behavior for reporting — people think John slept with witnesses, people of interest to cases, that he’s kind of a loose cannon. Why else would he have broken ranks and burst into a warehouse as it was about to blow? Three agents died on his account — by Rodney’s account, in his own perusal of the files, those three agents would have died anyway, and the only crime Sheppard committed was reckless disregard for his own life. And it’s selfish, but in the end, Rodney doesn’t care why or who or how John came to knock on the door of his office in the basement, he’s just glad John did, and that when he gets to work in the morning or sleeps in the office overnight, John is the first person he sees.
*
Last season, House and I had a somewhat rocky relationship — by which I mean, it slapped me in the face with its cock. A lot. And after a long, long time trying to get over Officer Date Anal Rape and all the associated shenaniganry therein, I was back to way totally psyched to see the new episodes.
Under the cut are the following:
(1) Spoilers for the season premiere.
(2) A bajillion images. You’ve been warned.
As predicted, I felt better Wednesday morning, and then I felt even better after I watched the latest episode of Eureka (wherein my suspicion that Fargo kind of has a man-crush on Jack grows and watching Stark watch chicks fight over Carter made me make squeaky, choking noises) and then of course today, Fleshbot gave me this beautiful, beautiful thing: Kal-El, at Rentboy.com. Somewhere out there, Lex Luthor just had an orgasm and he doesn’t even know why.
And, because I feel bad because it’s been, roughly, a geologic era since I wrote anything, snapshots from WIPs upcoming, in the following order:
• Lustrous, because you guys dig the vagina John.
• Shift, because I love SG-9
• White Wedding, because Naruto + Gaara = OTP. Fuck Sasu-GAY anyway. (more…)
So this snapshot (slash future WIP) is precipitated from this conversation which was a response to this evil, tempting post from Jenn.  It’s important to know that I, as a writer, cannot resist (a) genderfuck (b) babies or (c) a good dare. So when you bring up girl!John AU, and then you throw in babies, I am not a strong enough person. In conclusion, this is totally not my fault.
PS, it is like, 11 a.m. in Seattle and I am drinking Bloody Mary’s and packing, watching the season two Top Chef marathon. It is what we like to call “money.” (PPS, I still hate Marcel. His hair — it’s just. John Sheppard is dying a little bit inside and he doesn’t even know why.)
I can’t help it: I love writing this crossover.