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Doctors Do Dyson by Inkscribe
John heard them long before he reached the door, an argument obviously heated and heating further. “Yes yes yes, of course he’s brilliant, Radek. That should be obvious even to you.” McKay. A snort. “But he hid it all these years?” Zelenka. “Well, I think he’s got the right idea.” Kavanagh. Another snort, but doubled. Simultaneous snorting from the scientists? John was surprised to find he had room for more curiosity. “Gee, what a surprise,” a voice mocked. “Kavanagh admires a slacker.” Definitely McKay again. John found himself feeling a bit like Alice as he was drawn in, curioser and curioser. What started this argument, and who the hell did McKay think he was calling John a slacker? “He’s a bit posh I think.” Beckett. John was almost at the door and he felt his colour start to rise. Posh? What was it with everyone on this mission always ridiculing his hair? He didn’t spend any time on it at all, he didn’t have hair care products cached away for an emergency because he really never bothered with the stuff, and he didn’t think it was funny that people seemed to have no problem at all commenting on his personal grooming skills as if ... as if ... as if he were affecting the whole thing just to be showy, instead of being a guy cursed with an endless string of mostly bad-hair days. It wasn’t like it was his fault or anything that the rumpled look had become popular in recent years, that certainly didn’t make up for all the years of merciless taunting by his schoolmates and, later, the withering glares from his Air Force superiors. John strode through the open door just as Kavanagh said, “At least he was smart enough to get rid of bags.” John stopped dead in his tracks, completely befuddled. Bags? Something wasn’t adding up, at least not in base 10. He thought back on the last few moments, reviewing the bits he’d heard. Nope, it wasn’t adding up in base 8, 6, 19, or 2, either. He schooled his features, affected a casual, nonchalant air, and leaned lazily against the AV room wall before glancing around the room at the men there: Kavanagh and Zelenka standing, McKay upright and clearly uptight on a couch, and Beckett slouched on a second couch. “So,” John drawled. “What are the finest minds in Atlantis up to today?” McKay started and looked guilty, his face rapidly flushed red. Zelenka grinned openly at John, and Kavanagh just snorted, almost in tandem with a Scottish-flavoured snort from the couch as Beckett joined in. John looked from face to face expectantly. While his curiosity remained burning at a fever pitch, he re-assessed his assumptions while he continued to look at each of the assembled men. OK, so maybe not Alice in Wonderland, he thought, but quite possibly I’m in an episode of Three’s Company. “Well?” he prompted. “Or do I need special clearance for this discussion?” Zelenka surprised them all at that point by giggling. From the look on his face, it was hard to tell whether McKay was more mortified by the sound of one of his staff giggling or by being caught at whatever it was they were up to in the first place. “What’s the matter,” sneered Kavanagh. “Can’t remember how to use your grownup words, McKay?” Had John not been privy to some of the exchange before he arrived he might have thought McKay was suffering from anaphylaxis. The purplish-red blotches of colour permeating the man’s face were quite impressive, like a piece of performance art on the emotion ‘rage’. McKay raised a fist and shook it at Kavanagh. “Don’t think that you’re safe from transfer out of here for a minute, Kavanagh. Just because you don’t report directly to me doesn’t mean you’ve got immunity from my wrath.” John being John and completely confused yet also completely unable to help himself heard himself asking rhetorically, “And that would be the ‘Wrath of Rod’...ney?” McKay let out a strangled gasp as Zelenka resumed his giggles, joined by more snorts from Beckett and a smug grin from Kavanagh. He brandished an index finger at John, the finger unsteady as he twitched with barely suppressed rage. “You! How could you do this to me, Colonel? We’re on the same team! I’ve saved your life,” McKay cried. John looked stricken and raised his hands as if to ward off attack, or perhaps to keep the crazy man quiet. “I just got here, McKay,” he protested. “And all I did was ask what you guys were doing! Do I need to order you to explain just what the hell you’re not talking about?” Zelenka threw himself next to Beckett, giggling madly. “Silence!” roared McKay. Zelenka quieted somewhat; however, Beckett began emitting little squeaks from his own fit of until-just-that-moment silent giggling. John looked back at Kavanagh and found himself exchanging a shrug with the man. John knew that Kavanagh knew what was going on, but as usual, the man clearly wasn’t going to make things easy for McKay by just spilling the whole story. John wrenched his attention back to McKay when he realised he’d just missed something muttered rapidly from the chief of sciences. “What was that, McKay?” John asked. McKay gave a huge sigh and repeated, “It’s all Jeannie’s fault.” Jeannie? Why on earth would they be arguing about Jeannie? And weren’t they arguing about a guy or something? Jeannie might be a lot of things, but a guy wasn’t one of them. And, for that matter, posh wasn’t, either. John really liked the down-to-earth McKay sibling when she’d visited. No, whatever this was, it was definitely continuing not to add up. Almost-silence stretched as John thought about her – little snickers and soft guffaws from Zelenka and Beckett continued pretty much unabated. John nodded and winced slightly. “So McKay,” he said, trying for his calm-down-the-mad-scientist voice instead of his kill-the-overachieving-bastard voice. “What, exactly, are you blaming your little sister for?” McKay repeated the huge sigh, his shoulders slumped in resignation. He gestured towards the dark screen at the front of the room. “She just sent me this,” McKay hissed, viciously hitting the play button on the remote. John watched the video clip in silence, his face impassive while his body still leant in carefully-arranged casualness against the wall. When the clip finished, he waited for McKay to continue. When McKay didn’t, John took the opportunity to sigh and prompted, “She sent you a copy of a commercial?” “Yes.” “About a vacuum cleaner.” “Yes.” John stared narrowly at McKay for several seconds, trying with all his might to fit the variables together to come up with a result other than ‘null’. Nope, nothing computed. Nothing added up. But, wait – there might just be an explanation here after all: “The commercial has some sort of subliminal fight-with-other-scientists command built into it?” John hazarded. At this, Zelenka dissolved into a renewed fit of giggling. To John’s surprise, Kavanagh stepped in. “McKay’s just annoyed that he actually agrees with his sister for once, and the rest of us just don’t see it.” Unseen by the rest, Kavanagh winked at John, tipping John off that they were just pulling McKay’s leg, all too successfully from the looks of things. “Well if any of you had the collective IQ of a mouse on generic cheese, you’d be just as incensed,” McKay snapped. “Maybe you’d care to enlighten my cheese-addled brain?” John drawled. “Fine, Colonel. But be warned – if you’re as thick as this lot,” McKay waved his hand across the other three men, his action both dismissive and imperious. “Then I’ll lose all respect for you.” John raised an eyebrow. “Sounds serious,” he replied. “Jeannie sent me a copy of the commercial to prove that Earth really is doomed, being as we’re still living in the cultural dark ages.” John thought about McKay’s words and found they still didn’t compute. John kept his eyebrow raised in expectation. “And you get this from a vacuum cleaner ad how, McKay?” “It’s perfectly obvious!” fumed McKay. “You get this pretty-boy, well, man really,” he said. “Posh, I think Beckett called him.” Beckett nodded in agreement. “You get this posh British guy who’s got to be at least 55 and he’s hinting to us about his adventures in vacuum cleaner re-engineering.” John’s eyebrow remained firmly raised. “He’s 55!” John’s eyebrow did not so much as twitch. “And posh!” Still no eyebrow relaxation. McKay threw up his hands in a strange combination of frustration and ergo, he had solved the problem. “Colonel,” McKay said, his voice rising again towards a shout. “He’s decided to save the world, the female world for the most part, I might add, from the frustration of poorly-engineered vacuum cleaners because he discovered, as a middle-aged man, that vacuum cleaners don’t work very well!” John let his eyebrow resume its normal position on his forehead and nodded slowly as the pieces fit together. Yes, now he had the variables, he had an equation, and he had an answer. John coughed slightly to clear his throat of his own giggle that threatened to break out any moment. “If the guy was a decent type, he really should have stumbled upon the deficiencies inherent in vacuum cleaners when he was still in high school?” John summarised. “Damn straight,” McKay muttered. John nodded thoughtfully. McKay hadn’t had a coddled childhood, and John could imagine that the very idea of some pompous ass coming to the rescue of the average housecleaning-burdened serf might get McKay’s ire up. “I can see where you’re coming from, McKay.” McKay looked at him suspiciously as John levered himself from the wall and plopped down next to him. “I’d also suggest that you shouldn’t trust the motives of a guy who wants to get rid of bags,” he stage-whispered, innuendo dripping heavily from every syllable he uttered. “What?” gasped McKay. Kavanagh snorted, shook his head, and took his leave. Zelenka continued his giggling, and Beckett broke out in loud guffaws. John nudged McKay’s arm with his elbow and nodded meaningfully at the remote he still clutched. “Jeannie send anything else good for us take apart?” “Just a couple of episodes of a lame-assed post-apocalyptic show with really bad science,” began McKay. “Sounds good to me,” said John, and the four men settled down in contented, silent companionship to watch the lame-assed-ness. End, Doctors Do Dyson |
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Title: Doctors Do Dyson Pairings: none (ensemble) Summary: In which John misunderstands by accident but the others do so by design. Kink: none Rating: G Words: ~ 1700 Author's Notes/Warnings: None, really. The … erm … ‘item’ under discussion was available in my part o’ Canada, which may or may not help you, gentle readers. Let’s just say I’m not making that part up. Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine; please don’t sue, we’ll both regret it in the morning. Anything you recognise related to the … erm … especially not mine. Seriously – Rodney and I are in complete agreement on this one. Harumph. |
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