In Which John Is Not Manly
They're both still staring at the jackalope fifteen minutes later.
"You have to know," Rodney says a little desperately, because their options are quickly dwindling down to nothing at all. "Colonel. Basic training, the great outdoors, *shooting things*, this is your *thing*."
Sheppard stares with a disturbingly wide-eyed fascination at the--it's so stupid, but it's a rabbit the size of a deer with antlers, what are they *supposed* to call it? "Pilot," he says, like he's trying to remember how to form words. "Pilot. Not. Not *huntsman*."
Oh God. Dropping on his ass, Rodney stares up at his fearless leader. "You don't know?"
Sheppard tears his eyes away, fixing them on Rodney in unconcealed annoyance. "Okay, one. No, I don't. They didn't cover *how to skin and dress your dinner* in boot camp, okay? Two, even if they *had*, I'm pretty sure they didn't cover a six foot rabbit with *spikes*. Three, you're from *Canada*, and do I sit around expecting you to *chase down bears*?" There's a rising edge of hysteria, which makes Rodney worry that this may be the breaking point for John Sheppard. It's been a long day. One of *those* days, where the morally-questionable alien priestesses showed a bit too much interest in all the wrong things, and Sheppard had serious personal space issues when it came to quasi-religious rituals, and really, who could have seen that coming?
Which is how they ended up here, wherever *here* is. "Colonel?"
Sheppard's eyes are back on the jackalope. "Today," John says with fragile, terrifying dignity, "I was molested by unattractive women who wanted to remove certain key components of my anatomy in honor of their almighty being. After escaping--and with no help from a certain teammate who decided to have an allergic reaction to *water*--and what the hell, Rodney, *water*?--we were recaptured and tossed through the Stargate, where we were attacked by the Easter bunny. Now my same teammate, who is allergic to *water*--how can you be allergic to water?--expects me to--to--" But John's voice trickles out there, like he can't quite say the words.
Rodney licks his lips. "Division of labor. I figure out how you dial a Stargate without a dial--"
"And I projectile vomit on dinner. You really *are* a genius." John's eyes go back to the carcass and flitter away. "And right now would be a good time for that, I think, so if you'll excuse me…." And turning on his heel, before Rodney's unbelieving eyes, Sheppard retreats to a tree and is thoroughly sick.
Their day couldn't get worse.
Later, while John stares resentfully at his water bottle, still a shade of green that should have been desperately unattractive and sadly, isn't, Rodney takes out his boot knife and said, "Fine. But *you* have to cook it."
John's head tilts in a way that the priestesses had called very charming. But then, they'd been about to castrate him, so really, what did they know? "Who said I could cook?" Then the bastard falls asleep.
"I'd better get sex for this one," Rodney mumbles, and goes to work.