Series: Moments Sacred and Profane

Title: MSP3: League Play

Author: Mice

email: just_us_mice@yahoo.com

Category: Stargate: Atlantis, McKay/Beckett

Warnings: slash, humor

Spoilers: Poisoning the Well

Rating: R – mostly for language and violence to soccer balls

Summary: Somebody's got a soccer ball. Boredom is alleviated – for a while.

Archive: If it's on your list, you can archive it. If isn't and you'd like it, just let me know where you're putting it.

Website: Mice's Hole in the Wall https://www.squidge.org/mice

Mirror: http://mice.inkpress.org

Disclaimer: I don't own these guys. Honest. I'm just playing with them for a while. I'll put them back when I'm done. They may be slightly worse for wear.

Author's Notes: I tossed in a friend and fellow fanficcer as an OC. She'll be around, but not in the foreground of the series. Czech language by Cattie, to whom all should bow down.

~~~~~

League Play

In the week or so since he'd talked to Carson, he'd finally been able to calm down enough for things to get back to something resembling normal -- whatever the hell that was. It wasn't so much the feeling of impending doom hanging over Rodney's head as it was a deep-seated fear of... intimacy.

Crap. There was that word again. What a fucking awful concept. Doom. Intimacy. Same thing when you got right down to it.

He'd stopped avoiding Carson, though it was sometimes difficult to talk with him. Everything had changed with that one indiscretion. He'd almost lost his place on his team, which had shaken him to his bones. Carson was right for once – the whole avoidance idea had been the wrong thing to do. They'd taken to having lunch together most days, but still didn't talk much.

That was kind of okay. Just spending time with Carson was... nice.

He turned his attention back to the pile of unidentifiable things they'd found last time he'd been offworld. Before he could actually pick anything up, though, Carson burst through the door all out of breath.

"Rodney! Radek! Did you hear? We're gettin' up a footie league!"

"Football?" Zelenka's eyes snapped wide and a broad grin opened his face. "Where did they find one?" He stood, bouncing excitedly. The other scientists in the room turned to listen. Most of them looked interested as well.

"Foo... oh, you mean soccer." Rodney twitched an eyebrow, curious but not all that interested. Had somebody found a puck and hockey sticks (not to mention ice and skates), it might be another situation entirely. Shifting slightly in his seat, he turned to face Carson.

"Sally Buthelezi," Carson was saying, "the xenobiologist from South Africa, she brought one along."

"Skvely! Where is she? How do we join up?" Zelenka babbled, thrilled. He tended to do that when he was spun up about something. Rodney found it vaguely annoying.

"English, Zelooka," Rodney snapped.

"That's ZeLENka, McKay. It's simple enough to pronounce, even for you. When are you going to get it properly?" Zelenka scowled at him as only Eastern Europeans were able. "I was expressing my great joy at this development."

"Well, that's all lovely. Now, why don't we all get back to work here?"

"Rodney, you can't mean that! Let's go and talk to Sally -- it'll be fun." Carson grinned and grabbed him by the elbow. "I haven't played footie since university."

"That's a great idea," Kavanagh said. "Come on, McKay, it might drag your head out of your ass if you do something to loosen up." He grabbed Rodney's other elbow, and between Carson and the massing mutiny in his lab, he allowed himself to be hauled off for... soccer.

~~~~~

There had to be forty or so people on the immense outdoor deck that stretched away from the main towers of the city. Much of it was taken up by smaller structures and equipment, but there were several areas that could be used for team sports.

""What do you mean, is only one ball?" one of the Russians was asking. "How can everyone practice if there is only one ball?"

Buthelezi's voice carried well in the breeze, though Rodney had a bit of a time following her accent. "We shall just have to take turns," she called out. "If we form up some teams, we can get a practice schedule put together. It should not be so very difficult. Instead of drills for individual teams, we can simply get together and play. This is the point, is it not? It looks like we have enough players here for three teams. That should give ample time for all."

A cheer rang from the assembled crowd, including Carson and Zelenka. Rodney was pleased to see Carson looking so happy about something for a change.

A good deal of the light had gone out of his friend after Perna, the Hoffan medical researcher, had died. He thought it had as much to do with the sheer scale of death among the Hoffan population as it did with Perna's demise, though. Carson had been nearly silent for days after he'd returned to Atlantis. Everyone had given him a lot of space until he managed to get himself together again.

Rodney knew Carson still carried a lot of guilt for a situation that hadn't been his fault. The Hoffans had begun planetary-scale distribution of their fatal "vaccine" even as Carson argued against them. Being overruled was in no way his fault or his responsibility. He resisted the urge to reach out and pat Carson's shoulder.

He had to admit that watching so many people getting so excited was a fun distraction. Off to one side of the crowd, he saw Major Sheppard speaking animatedly to Teyla. "Really," he was saying as Rodney drew closer, "this isn't nearly as exciting as football."

"But many of the others are calling it football. The shape of this ball is not the same." She pointed over toward Buthelezi, who was heading the ball to someone else in the delighted crowd. "Is this the same game?"

"No!" Sheppard was in high dudgeon. "They're nothing like each other. They're played entirely differently. Soccer is for wimps. Football is a *man's* sport."

"But there are women--"

"Soccer players don't wear padding," Rodney said as he came along side them. "Or helmets. Football players don't take nearly the physical risks soccer players do. It takes a great deal more skill to play soccer than American football. Not to mention balls." He chuckled to himself as he watched Sheppard getting agitated. "And it *is* the most popular team sport on Earth."

"Oh, come on Rodney. We know you prefer that frozen abomination you call hockey. What do you know about soccer anyway?"

"Enough that I could play if I wanted to. You, however, obviously have no familiarity with the game whatsoever, nor any appreciation of the skill and finesse necessary to win. You couldn't move the ball two metres down the pitch with an entire team to guard you." He grinned smugly and crossed his arms, striking a dramatic, manly pose with just a little nonchalant flair that established his superiority.

Sheppard laughed. "Oh, so you're going to play, are you? That I'd like to see."

He'd overlooked that possibility. He had really only come along because Carson had dragged him out of his lab to see the fuss. "Well, uh... I hadn't really intended to play, John. I was just saying I knew how." He backed away an uneasy step or two. Funny how Sheppard could just suck the cool right out of things.

Tayla watched the conversation like some tennis match, head moving back and forth as they talked. She looked exceedingly puzzled, but he couldn't really blame her. Sheppard's rants weren't exactly the stuff of brilliant rhetoric.

"Oh, no, Rodney. You're not getting off that easily. Come on. If you're so hot about this being better than football, put your ass on the line. Your mouth's been working overtime lately." He grinned an exceptionally evil grin and grabbed Rodney's arm, and for the second time that day, Rodney was being dragged into something that might have him actually participating in sports rather than simply watching. Sweating was not on his list of favorite activities. He just knew he was going to regret the lack of popcorn and power bars before this was over.

~~~~~~

It turned out that Carson had been a goalie at university. Rodney would never have taken him for an athlete, but his enthusiasm was fierce, and he would throw himself around in front of the goal with complete abandon when the ball was coming at him. Playing on hard decking was harsh, but hauling in turf was impractical and when one of the Navy pilots on Sheppard's team had commented about playing American football on carrier decks, most people stopped complaining.

Rodney himself wasn't too bad at the game. He would never be very good, but he did discover he was enjoying himself as they settled in over the course of the first three matches of the week. That surprised him. It probably had something to do with the workout he was getting running around with the Gate team and getting his ass shot at. Dodging bullets in the face of certain death had a lot more urgency to it than, say, lifting weights. He'd been losing some, ah, extra insulation in the past month or so too.

There had been enough military interested in playing that they were given their own team. Ford had wanted to call the team the Atlantis Ancients, but Sheppard told him yet again that Ford wouldn't be naming anything anytime soon. They ended up calling themselves the Screaming Eagles. It figured. These guys weren't exactly low on ego.

The other team they played against was composed of folks from admin, support, and maintenance. They'd decided to call themselves the Spanners -- as in throwing one into the works. They were actually much better than the Americans, as most of them had played regularly back home.

Rodney's team, all from the sciences, had decided in a fit of what someone thought was humor, to call themselves the Geoducks -- which was apparently pronounced gooey-ducks. An anthropologist and linguist, Erin Siwicki, had suggested it. What won the team over, though, was her argument: "Who can resist a clam that looks like a giant horse dick?"

Siwicki was a tough, slender, bespectacled woman in her early 40s, and a mean fullback. She didn't look like much because she was older than most of them and had the anthropology geek thing going, but she could kick serious ass. She didn't actually look her age, nor did she tend to act it, and Carson depended on her and Zelenka for defense. All Rodney could really say about her was that if he got stuck in a fight, she'd be an unexpectedly good source of backup.

It was their second game against the Screaming Eagles, and the sun was high in the sky. Rodney had complained about the ultraviolet, but Carson had just handed out sunscreen and told him to get on with it. "It's a beautiful day for a match," he'd said, "so why are you whinging like you're stuck in the Sahara with nothing but a loincloth?"

Grodin and Zelenka were joking back and forth, with Siwicki getting in the occasional lick in an apparent attempt to balance the testosterone levels with a little of her own.

"You swear like a sailor," he shouted to her as they formed up into their opening positions.

"Only because I was one," she called back. Several of the Eagles players laughed. They shouted that, as a vet, she should be on their team.

Siwicki turned toward them and yelled, "I hear any of you guys makin' jokes about being blown by the WINS and I'll personally keel-haul your ass."

"They do and I'll help you," one of the women on the military team shouted back. Carson said her name was Harrison or Henderson or something. Navy SEAL. She was one scary woman, and not in the least bit either blonde or dumb. Even her muscles had muscles. Rodney had decided during their last game against them that he was going to avoid her at all costs. Just looking at her you could tell she could snap a guy in half.

There were a few nervous chuckles from the men on Sheppard's team, but the tension gave way to excitement as soon as Buthelezi stepped to the center circle.

Rodney and Sheppard faced each other for the scrimmage. "Gonna kick your giant clammy ass," Sheppard declared, eyes alight. Rodney swore under his breath that he'd get Siwicki later.

"Like you kicked the paper pushers, featherbrains?" Rodney taunted. The military team had lost badly in their game with the Spanners. He grinned at Sheppard and the ball was down. Sheppard was faster, but didn't have the control Rodney did, so the Eagles lost the ball almost immediately.

The crowd around them cheered and Rodney dribbled the ball up the pitch, signaling his wings -- the Novograd Twins. They weren't even related, but they looked a lot alike and were both physicists who'd grown up as neighbors in Novograd. Rodney had worked with them while he'd been on loan to Russia from SGC. They were fast and devastating offensive players. If he believed in such things, he'd suspect they were psychically coordinating their attacks.

The Geoducks took over the pitch fairly quickly, driving for the goal. The Eagles' defense wasn't too bad, but even Harri-whoever the SEAL chick was no match for the Novograd Twins. They were past the defensive line and practically trampled Bates as they slammed their first goal home.

Through the crowd, he could hear Sheppard shouting, "--only *one*, and we are *so* gonna *kick* your asses!"

The Geoducks jeered back, Rodney joining in as the cheering crowd started getting rowdy. Rodney could almost believe they were back home, if it weren't for the nasty deck burn they got when they hit the ground. Carson had insisted that everyone wear non-regulation knee and elbow padding, and padded gloves as well. Buthelezi, ever a purist where the game was concerned, had hesitated at first, but everyone else thought it would be a good idea. It had already saved a lot of the players from losing serious chunks of flesh. Rodney was just as happy to keep his skin mostly intact.

The next play resulted in a free shot for the Eagles, but Carson foiled them, diving after the ball like a pro; he came up with it in his hands and a brilliant smile on his face. Rodney worried about Carson's lack of regard for his own safety, but in the games so far all he'd got were a few minor scrapes and bruises. He cringed every time he saw Carson hit the deck, and as a goalie, it happened frequently. Of course, they all did that every time anyone took a tackle, but it was more worrying when it was Carson. After all, if Carson got hurt, who the hell was going to patch the rest of them up?

Well, okay, maybe it wasn't entirely that, but it was still a reasonable excuse to fret about the good doctor.

Rodney had to face down Sheppard when the ball was back in play. He was a little better than Sheppard, but the Major was faster and a lot more flexible, and he had to work hard to get the ball away from him. Eventually, it took some teamwork with Grodin and Kavanagh and a flying tackle at the ball, feet first, to meg it between Sheppard's legs and down toward the Eagles' goal line.

Sheppard tripped over him, and they both slammed hard on the deck, the Major landing right on top of him, knees in his stomach. Rodney howled, figuring his spleen must have exploded from the impact. There was a blur, and all the players were next to him.

Carson dropped to his knees at his side as Sheppard got up off him.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry Rodney!" Sheppard reached down to him.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck," Rodney tried to mutter, unable to catch his breath through the pain. After an agonizing gasp, he growled, "You broke my fucking *spleen* Sheppard!"

Carson poked at him for a moment and asked him some questions, then helped him to his feet. "Your spleen's just fine, Rodney, but you've had the wind knocked right out of you. You'll have some muckin' great bruises later, though." Rodney wobbled a bit, his arms around his middle. Sheppard had a hand on his shoulder, and Rodney leaned into the support for a moment. "D'you want to sit out for a few minutes?" Carson pointed to the benches by the side of the pitch. "Get your breath back, make sure you don't cramp up?"

Rodney surprised himself by shaking his head no. He looked Sheppard in the eyes. "You are *so* dead." He reinforced his statement with a finger poking in Sheppard's face.

Ford laughed and Sheppard grinned. "You are so full of shit."

"You're in for a serious ass kicking," Rodney said, still gripping his belly.

"A minute ago you had a broken spleen, McKay -- now you're gonna kick my ass?"

"With my spleen in a splint and both hands tied behind my back," Rodney said, grinning wickedly. It wasn't like you needed hands to play soccer.

"Sounds like missions with the team are finally toughening him up," Ford snickered.

"Laugh while you can, Monkey-boy," Rodney growled, doing his best John Whorfin imitation.

"Enough, enough," Buthelezi said, waving everyone back. "No foul here, but if you don't stop shouting at each other, I'll give you both the yellow card."

Sheppard looked at her with that disgustingly effective puppy-eyed pout of his. "Aww, mom!" Thank God Sheppard didn't appeal to him. He'd be a sucker for that look.

Buthelezi laughed and swatted the back of Sheppard's head. She turned to Rodney, one slim, gentle hand on his shoulder. "Are you certain you can play, Dr. McKay? There's no harm in it, and it would be good to rest if you're hurt."

"No, no it's okay," Rodney replied. "I'll just go pass some blood at the halftime break. Beckett can give me a transfusion or something."

"Transfusion. Right," Carson snorted. "Off with you now, and let's get back to the game. We've some humiliating yet to do." He turned with a mock salute to Sheppard and trotted back to the goal with Zelenka and Siwicki at his heels, the three of them trading snarky comments.

This time, the Eagles offense managed to get past Siwicki, Zelenka, and the rest of the defense crew despite some serious defensive efforts, and the ball skimmed the tips of Carson's fingers as it flew into the goal. This put all of them in a bad mood, but Rodney was determined to get the ball back on the Eagles' end of the field for the next play.

Just before the halftime break, Grodin nailed the ball, sending it up in the air toward Ivanov, one of the Novograd Twins. Sheppard intercepted, heading the ball. A gust of wind picked it up and everyone watched, open mouthed with astonishment as the ball sailed toward the edge of the deck and over the railing into the sea.

There was a moment of stunned silence then Gasparov, the other Twin, muttered, "Bozhemoi."

Everyone broke for the edge. Buthelezi led the charge, screaming.

"Stop her!" Carson bellowed, and Rodney's heart nearly stopped when he realized she meant to go over the side after the damned thing. It had to be at least a ten-storey drop from the deck to the water below. The leap would most likely kill her.

The Novograd Twins got to her first, just as she had a foot on the chain separating the deck from empty air. They grabbed her arms, and Kavanagh launched himself at her, grabbing her about the knees. Finally, five of them had her on the deck as the rest of the group leaned against the chain railing, staring at the tiny black and white ball floating in the waves below.

"Shit," Sheppard said.

"I'll get it, Sir," Harri-whatever said. "Give me a few minutes to get one of the Zodiacs in the water and we'll--"

It broke the surface then, in shades of neon blue, electric yellow and blazing, brilliant orange. If Rodney wasn't mistaken, there were shades of a sagey green fringing the gills and fins as well. With a quiet, watery sound, the thing swallowed the ball and disappeared with an immense ripple of body, like some acid-induced tropical fish nightmare. It had to have been in excess of twenty metres long.

The oceanographers moved first, screaming and shouting at one another in some frenzied orgy of discovery. They ran from the deck, yelling about research and calling up the rest of the oceanography crew on radios as they moved.

Rodney leaned on the railing. He noticed Carson next to him, and they both stared at the water.

"This is your fault, you know," he said, elbowing Carson gently in the ribs.

"What? Are you daft? How's this my fault? It was Sheppard who headed the bloody thing over the side." He gestured helplessly at the now gently lapping waves.

"How did you manage to smuggle Nessie in, Carson? Tell the truth now."

Carson stared at him for a moment then laughed. "In my pants."

They leaned on each other, laughing breathlessly.

~~fin~~

Sorry to any Czech speakers about the lack of diacriticals.

Skvely – wonderful, marvelous

Russian in the story:

Bozhemoi -- my god