out_there | SGA Fic: Pointless

Title: Pointless
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: Rodney/John
Summary: Rodney knows it's pointless.
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Notes: Unbeta'd and rough. Written for

seperis. It was supposed to have weapons and porn, but one out of two will have to suffice.

Pointless

It's pointless.

Rodney keeps telling himself that, but it doesn't change anything. Every time they come across a new batch of Ancient devices and Radek points at one, shaking his head like a shaggy dog, and says, "High energy signature. Dangerous. Maybe we should--" Rodney snatches it away. Hoards it and adds it to his own private stock of Possible (Maybe) Ancient Weapons. Pokes and prods it until it does something completely unremarkable -- a replacement filter for the desalination tanks -- or until he gives up on trying to understand it.

Those ones, he shoves to the back of his closet so that when he has a spare moment -- between off-world missions and maintaining the city and outwitting their various enemies and sleeping -- when he finds this supposed leisure time on his hands, he'll work on them. The pile continues to grow.

Zelenka thinks he's a fool. Or ridiculously arrogant. He says Rodney should ask for military input, see if those familiar with using weapons can recognize alien artillery. What he means is that Rodney should ask John, should put John's mathematical mind and "ooh, weapons!" grin to work.

But that would defeat the purpose.

Rodney doesn't want to watch John grin at potential guns, and then suffer the disappointment of discovering it's a kettle in disguise. He wants to give John a working weapon and watch John's face light up because it works, and it's his, and, yes, because Rodney found it for him. He knows that last one isn't very likely, but if he can force one of these trinkets into complying with his plan, he'll still get to watch John's smile break like sunrise over the endless water of the horizon.

It's a long term plan, but given enough time, he'll make it succeed. Or he would have, if not for the sudden flux in energy readings that unsurprisingly center on Rodney's own quarters. Possibly -- judging by the smoke seeping out of his room -- it wasn't a good idea to leave a stack of dangerous artifacts in his closet.

At the last minute, self-preservation kicks in and he stops John from going in to solve the Mystery of the Smoking Room. Smoke-inhalation is uncomfortable and bad for his future respiratory health, but if he has to explain this to John, he'll die of embarrassment. Hence, self-preservation.

Shoving John aside with a quick, "I can do this," Rodney covers his mouth with his sleeve and steps inside. He manages all of two steps before John's pulling him back by his shoulders -- for a moment, pulling Rodney flush against his chest -- and then dragging him back into the hallway.

John's mouth is expressive, but it's his eyebrows that are most communicative. The man can hold a conversation using his eyebrows alone -- Rodney's seen it happen -- and right now, they're high on his forehead, asking questions like "What the hell are you doing?" and somehow managing to swear at him.

"I know what I'm doing. It's my quarters, this is simply a loose wire behind the closet -- the circuit that controls the heat, probably -- and I'm the best person to fix it," Rodney says quickly, wondering if talking faster will help him sound convincing. Watching the open doorway over John's shoulder helps too. "We all appreciate your 'shoot and run for your life now, ask questions later' approach -- we really do, Colonel -- but now is not the time for it. Now is the time for intelligence and scientific know-how, and oh, my god, are those flames? Did you see actual flames shoot out? I'm going to be left without clothes. And, oh, God! My certificates! Paper is highly combustible!"

"Rodney? Shut up." John closes his eyes and scrunches up his face, and if Rodney didn't know better, he'd swear the man was communing with the city, or some other hippie crap. Then it starts to rain, which Rodney finds typical of his luck, until he remembers that he's *inside*.

Turns out, it's actually sprinklers, dripping from the ceiling. "Huh. I didn't know we had those."

"The city has it all. You just have to ask really, really nicely." The sudden shower stops. John's hair is coal-dark, wet and flattened. Rodney pays very careful attention to John's hazel eyes, and doesn't let his gaze follow the bead of water sliding down John's neck. "Now you can fix the circuits, when there's no threat of you becoming Physicist a la Flambé."

"Thank you for your concern. I'm touched, truly, but now that you've done your Smoky the Bear impersonation, I have work to do," Rodney blusters, overwhelmingly relieved that he got away with it, even though "it" at this moment means finding a safe, unquestioned way to dispose of over a dozen Ancient devices. Maybe he could throw them off a pier. "Well?"

John runs a hand through wet hair, but stays right there. "Well what?"

"Don't you have work to do? Work that doesn't involve hovering over my shoulder and annoying me while I accomplish success?"

"That's pretty much my job description, Rodney."

"Hovering over my shoulder?" Rodney asks, already knowing he's lost: lost this argument, lost his mind, about to lose his dignity. "That's your job description? That explains so much."

At least he didn't lose his certificates. They'll smell like smoke for a while, but the room itself is undamaged. Sighing, Rodney walks into the room, towards the closet, his feet leaden. He wonders if he can get 'I died of embarrassment' as an epitaph.

When the closet door grudgingly slides open, it's worse than he thought. His clothing is in tatters, charred and smeared, but Rodney can always order more uniforms. The real horror comes from the pile of technology: the half-cylindrical thing and the oval Frisbee-looking thing have melted, dripping soft, gooey (hot) metal over the mountain. It's cooling, leaving Rodney an ode to modern sculpture that stands higher than his knee. He remembers the individual items being light, so it shouldn't be too hard to lift (but hopefully heavy enough to sink).

John squats in front of the mess, and stares at it. "I never imagined you'd be such a magpie."

"Shut up."

"I mean, really, is this what happens when we find a room full of new stuff? You pocket the most interesting pieces and hoard them?"

"Shut. Up."

"At least it would explain why so many of the devices are Ancient white-goods, boring and practical. All the fun stuff is hidden in your closet."

"What do I have to do to get you to shut up?"

John leans back on his heels, amused and relaxed, and grins up at Rodney. "Tell me why you've got this stuff. It should be in the labs, under safe supervision and controlled conditions. Isn't that what you're always telling the marines?"

"I hardly think that I'm in the same category as the guys who carry guns and learn to march in time. I know the dangers, I know the risks--"

"Like setting fire to your wardrobe."

"--and I was keeping them for personal experimentation."

John's eyebrow jumps. "I'm suddenly thinking sex toys. Please tell me that's not where this conversation is going. I really don't want to think about anything left for ten thousand years being used like that."

"Oh, thank you for that mental image. That's what I need to think about next time we find something unknown -- to wonder if it was the Ancient version of bedroom paraphernalia." It really was a horrifying thought. As bad as finding dirty magazines under your father's bed and realizing they were *used*. "Anyway, these weren't like that -- these weren't anything like that -- these were supposed to be weapons. Maybe."

On cue, John smiles, his eyes bright. "Weapons? You found Ancient weapons?"

"Maybe. I mean, I wasn't sure yet, and I didn't want to tell you until I was sure. I didn't want to set you up for a fall, because every time we think we've found a weapon, we can't figure it out, we can't power it or fix it, or we find it's used to spray-paint walls."

John blinks the smile gone, but there's a touch of glee in the corners of his mouth. "Then why did you have them?"

"Well, I thought… I mean… If I could find the time…" Rodney rubs the back of his neck; he can feel the flush starting there. "If I ever found a way to do without sleep, I'd have the time to work on them and maybe I'd be able to find you one that's operational. And you could, I don't know, shoot stuff with it."

"Instead, your good intentions nearly set fire to your room."

"Well, it's not like it was a completely selfless idea, it was purely motivated by selfish reasons. I wanted to see you--" Too late, far too late, Rodney realizes he said too much. For a guy with an indecently huge IQ, there are times when he acts more like Yahoo Serious than Albert Einstein. "I'm shutting up now."

John's expression changes, beams at Rodney. If John's "ooh, weapons!" glow is candlelight, this expression is pure sunshine. Rodney has to look away before it burns his retinas. "You were going to give up sleep for me?"

"I already do." Shrugging, Rodney stares at the carpet. He sees John's legs straighten as he stands up, feels John's hand land heavy and *there* on his shoulder. He forces himself to talk before it's too late. "Colonel, this isn't-- I mean, whatever you think this is, it isn't so--"

There are two fingers lying across his open mouth; two fingers, and Rodney's words stop.

And when John kisses him, it doesn't feel pointless at all.

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oxoniensis.livejournal.com

Hee, I liked that.

That's what I need to think about next time we find something unknown -- to wonder if it was the Ancient version of bedroom paraphernalia." It really was a horrifying thought. As bad as finding dirty magazines under your father's bed and realizing they were *used*.

That really is a horrid thought! I'd want to wear gloves to touch any new Ancient object after that!

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SGA Fic: Pointless

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