Rodney couldn't decide if he'd been propositioned or if a brisk spank on the ass after a sparring match was just a male-bonding gesture that transcended galactic borders, like those homoerotic but sadly repressed PDAs that American footballers exchanged after a good play--congratulations on not getting your skull crushed by apes, Buck. Ronon's hand might have lingered a skedge longer than necessary, but was the post-combat sparkle in his eyes mocking and vaguely homicidal or something else?
It didn't matter; Rodney was determined not to fall under the spell of Mister Missing Link, unlike some people whose tails practically thumped the ground when the man walked up, a truly undignified display for someone who'd moseyed his way to the rank of colonel.
And now I'm going to work. No, really.
The drive to Taos was all rain and tractor-trailers and greasy burgers--at the last, even Jim, champion burger-eater of the greater Cascade area, started to look at the identical truck-stop menus with a jaundiced eye, and lit up like a winning slot machine when they found a Kosher deli tucked into the middle of nowhere; his kisses tasted of horseradish afterwards, and they lost a few hours from their schedule in the cheap motel next door. But despite the dispiriting sameness that was assimilating American highways, Blair wouldn't have traded the trip for anything; it was his first time out of the city in almost a year, a far cry from his student days when he used to keep his backpack by the front door, ready to hit the road on a moment's notice.
And it all came together when they reached Taos, the skies rewarding their journey with blue clarity, Jim's shoulders settling to a relaxed level, and the smell of sage coming through the open windows like a cleansing.
I knew I would cow you all into silence with my apple-hating rage! Such was my intention.
Last night I decided I was going to list all the SGA fantasies I've had to date. Then I decided that it was late and I was tired and it'd take too long. Maybe I should do that now. Because damn it, that's what I get paid for. Oh wait. Hold on. That doesn't sound quite right.
*is inane and spamical*
Similar to how fizzy neon-colored juice drinks might contain about ten percent actual juice if you were lucky, wedded bliss was often less than completely blissful once you subtracted for schlepping each other's dry-cleaning, passive-aggressive negotiations for real estate in the bedroom closet, spats about saving electricity, as if turning off a lamp when you left a room was one of mankind's cardinal virtues, and the wear-and-tear of L.A. commuting. Also, there was nothing wrong or even particularly femme about buying an aubergine shirt. Reaching this conclusion with lips firmed, Vaughn topped off the gesture by buying a pumpkin-colored tie, which he planned to hang on Jack's tie-rack as soon as he got home, just to drive home the point.