St. Patrick Day Drabbles (G)

Rodney knew exactly how lucky he was not. Luck never had anything to do with it. It was hard work, hard facts and genius that made him successful. A genius in two galaxies.

This. This he had no explanation for. There had been no work, no facts and had nothing to do with his genius.

"You're thinking too much," John mumbled into his chest.

"Am not," Rodney replied automatically.

"Are," John said softly. He raised himself up on one elbow and looked Rodney in the eye. He leaned in for a kiss.

Rodney was the luckiest man in two galaxies.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The lake didn't look that rough but the small boat and the fishy smell added to the misery. Rodney actually felt himself turning green as his stomach started to churn.

"Up," John commanded. "To the railing." John's hand under his elbow helped guide him to the side of the boat.

"I hate throwing up," Rodney gritted.

"I hate when you throw up on my boots more," John said.

"That was an accident," Rodney whined. Then lurched for the railing as his stomach finally gave out.

John's hand on his back rubbed small circles, an offer of comfort Rodney took gratefully.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


An improbable power source and smaller than you would think. Rodney stared at the pyramid of ZedPMs in front of him, his mind for once a blank.

If there had been only one, it would have been a soft light, a nightlight. The, Rodney counted again, ten in the pile made the room light up, bathed the walls in gold.

This was gold beyond price, beyond belief. The plans, hopes, dreams that had long laid dormant in the back of his head began to stir, to come to life.

"Trade anything," he ordered. "Well, maybe not Sheppard. But anyone else."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"Are you sure it's okay?" Rodney did not whine. Not much.

John sighed. "Yes, it's okay. No citrus."

Teyla gave the look of doom. "It is ceremonial. You need to take a sip."

"It's... green. And smells putrid," Rodney protested. Softly, to John. Teyla would be unhappy if he ruined these negotiations. Ronon would be unhappy. Even he would be unhappy. There was tormack at stake.

But. Really putrid smell.

Rodney took a deep breath, held it. He picked up the cup, took a sip. It was thick and he wanted to gag. Swallowing took all the willpower he had.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"You made this?" Rodney asked, curious.

John reddened slightly, nodded.

Rodney turned the strip over, examining the weave. It was faintly Celtic in design. He ran a finger over the knots.

"This pattern, does it mean anything?" Rodney asked.

"Yes," John said, taking the strip from Rodney's hands, tying it gently about his wrist so that the pattern was on the inside. "It's Gaelic."

A language no one in Pegasus would be able to read. A secret in plain sight.

Rodney touched the strip reverently. "Thank you. What does it say?" he asked, smiling.

John whispered against his lips, "Mine."