Seperis (seperis) wrote,

friday things and the wip collection

I'm having a day of severe cognitive dissonance when switching to the new Vertigo theme--it is called Vertigo, right? Which is just like the first one for lj except the subtle differences and so awesome I kind of want to cry a little. And I also keep half thinking, did I finish that SV story and then remember, right, it's not 2002. Fun.

Post-vacation letdown--well, not for Child, he wandered off to play with a new friend and I am abandoned to die at home with my laptop and vitamin collection--and yes, there is a definite connection between my not taking them and my concentration and mood, though I'd probably have to skip more than three days to really be sure. I'm feeling--distracted. I have basically five differnet stories open and am adding a sentence to each one almost regularly, which is new levels of bizarre behavior. One of them is for trobadora in MensaAU, which is--I didn't mean to write any more of that! But mostly I miss having a place to write outright OTT parody and Exclusion was all drama. Now I want to go back to a place where Colonel Sheppard and Rod McKay have to watch in horror as Drs Sheppard and McKay bond horrifically and destroy souls. Because that is funny.

And since it's been a while. The WIP Collection, active.

Untitled Mensa Thing: The Anniversary Edition - honestly, this is so self-indulgent it makes me giggle to myself.


"He likes guns," Ronon offers. Rod glares at Ronon in poisonous hate from the floor.

"You know," Rod says pleasantly, testing his knee for stability before standing up. "I think I'm done today." Going to the bench, Rod collapses across it with no pride at all and stares at the ceiling. "I'm not getting my boyfriend a gun."

"Just saying he likes them." Ronon pauses thoughtfully. "He liked the gun that Lorne--"

"Please do not go there."

From the other side of the room, Rod can hear Ronon snickering softly, and there's this temptation--it's petty, but again, Rod's a very petty man--to call John up and tell him Ronon's finally come around and would love to try that Jaffa eight hour meditation thing he's been nagging the team about for the last month. Maybe on the next day off when Rod's pretty sure Ronon's making noise about going to the mainland with Teyla under some pretext of cultural sensitivity. Whatever.

Rod keeps his gaze steadily on the ceiling as Ronon drops on the bench beside him. "He's not easy to shop for," Ronon remarks, and Rod pushes himself painfully upright to look at Ronon.

"What did you get him for his last birthday?"

Ronon frowns thoughtfully. "Took him shooting with his--"

"New gun, yes, thanks." Sighing, Rod watches Ronon packing up his bag. "You're not helping."

Ronon shrugs. "How about flowers?"

Untitled Mensa AU Crossover: Many McKays and Sheppards

This is mostly for trabadora, because she always makes the most awesome happy sounds ever when I post in this universe. It's addictive. I am so not above being told how pretty and smart I am.


Dr. Sheppard and Dr. McKay bond like *crazy*.

Even Zelenka looks hunted, sitting between them at the far end of the messhall, two sets of happily waving hands and brandished laptops, surrounded by the detritus of Ancient mystery equipment and French fries. They finish each other's sentences like they share a brain and talk over each other like eardrums are an optional upgrade that turn off with the flip of a switch.

Beside him, Rod's poking his mashed potatoes and hiding incipient jealousy badly. John wonders if the same expression's on his face, fighting off the urge to wander casually over to the table and snatch McKay away every time Sheppard starts discussing the time-space continuum and doesn't once mention Star Trek.

It's lowering, all things considered.

The two of them eventually retreat, trailed by an entourage awed female scientists who haven't taken their eyes off Sheppard once, apparently unwilling to note that Dr. Sheppard had requested double quarters with Rod and hey, ther'es only one bed.

*Lorne* noticed, of course, but the amused looks had stopped early on when Rod had murmured something that sent his second in command to the gym for an intensive work-out with Ronon and the Marines. John's still not sure what was up with that.

"So," John says, trying not to notice Sheppard's poisonous glance back at him before vanishing out the door, doubtless to ply McKay with fractals and tell him that his mind is the sexiest thing in the galaxy. "This is awkward."

Rod sighs, looking into the distant Atlantean ocean like he can see the future. "It'll get worse."


The most I can say about this one is that it unreasonably amuses me. I had this slightly angsty Ancient-devicy thing in the background, but honestly? It amuses me. John's probably the first character I've ever written who would be unduly traumatized by the fountain of youth.


John's easy and hard, with new edges that cut easily, most often himself. Rodney doesn't remember adolescence like this, but he thinks maybe he should have; everything bright and eager; dramatic and purposed; a little too emotional, like getting half-high and never coming down. The face is the same and subtly different; traces of softness along his jaw, cheekbones cutting through like knives beneath shadowed hazel eyes. Carson isn't sure how old he is now; the Wraith changed the pace of John's body when it gave him its life. Rodney lowers himself down to the floor beside John, noting too-loose sweatpants and an Air Force t-shirt.

"McKay." John frowns, ridiculously pretty, and Jesus, it's like flipping back in time. This was John before Atlantis, the Air Force, *college*--all huge dark eyes and fine bones, flawless pale skin and utterly perfect. He's beautiful. One bony knee comes up rebelliously between them. Apparently the weight thing has always been there; he's all muscle stretched tight.

John turns away to stare out into the water, glazed in green. Rodney leans back, delighted all anew in this body--God, he'd forgotten how different it was at eighteen, at twenty, all liquid muscle and boneless sprawls; everything's so fucking *easy*. "Still sulking?" Rodney asks, remembering John in the training room with Teyla, looking startled when his body responded too fast, the years of muscle memory taking over and augmented with the speed of a teenager, able to pin her to the floor for the first time in his life; Teyla's delighted smile before she threw him, watching him land like a cat, wide-eyed and shocked and watching her warily before he left.

John doesn't look at him, pushing back too-long hair; he refuses to get it cut. "Cut it out, McKay." Leaning back on one arm, John watches the water. "One more pep talk, I swear to God I'll shoot you."

Rodney smirks, stretching out on his stomach, head up in his hands. "We don't know how long the effects last," Rodney says, mostly to placate John's temper. He's looked over the data with Carson himself. Its' permanent.

"I didn't like adolescence the first time around," John says testily, letting the knee down. It's something. Rodney shifts a little closer. Raising a hand, he touches his face, then jerks it down. "The--"

"No acne yet," Rodney says gleefully. He's expecting the hormone surge any day now. Rodney never thought the day would come he'd look forward to the mirror quite like this. It'll be proof, somehow. More proof than he already has. Pulling at the waistband of his sweats, Rodney forces himself not to smile.

"Jesus," John says unhappily, one bare foot touching the glass, toes extended. "This is nuts."

"This is what they've searched a million worlds for," Rodney answers thoughtfully. John's not quite at full-growth yet. A couple of inches in height, at least twenty pounds in weight to go. Rodney remembers the lab as Carson ruthlessly stripped them both, all smooth skin, unscarred, like time winding backward through the years. Sixteen maybe. Seventeen at most. If he could get John's yearbook, he'd know better.

ETA: 8/22/2007 Completed! Eighteenish


Pretty much the only reason I'm working on this one at all is because eleveninches really liked the concept and I figured I could make something out of it eventually. I just don't know what yet.


The thing about Sheppard is, he's perfectly capable of giving every appearance of listening and still not hearing a goddamn thing you said.

"Am I taking time out of your busy schedule, Major?" he drawls, watching Sheppard's eyes de-glaze, mouth curving in the absent smirk of a man who doesn't give a good shit, almost daring Jack to call him on it, and at the beginning, he *had*. A complete and utter waste of time that Jack knows he'll regret on his deathbed, if for no other reason than the fact that Sheppard took reprimands like medals, with the same ironic tilt of the head.

"Of course not, General." Slumping more comfortably in his chair, Sheppard watches him with avid attention. "What can I do for you?"

When Jack had been younger, he probably would have punched that look off Sheppard's face, but when Jack was younger, he'd been punched by a commanding officer and remembers how highly pointless that had been. Plus, he's just not in the mood to go to the infirmary and explain that beating common sense into Sheppard is the reason he broke his knuckles.

And he doesn't even want to think what Daniel would say to that.

He lets Sheppard sit there while he looks at his laptop, biding time. Not for the first time, Jack thinks of Antarctica and how much simpler his life would have been if he'd left Sheppard there to fly his heart out over smooth white hills and bored the fuck out of his mind. But no, the transfer had been done, and Sheppard was *here*.

Here, now, in front of Jack's desk, the penultimate example of what happened to too-smart pilots who got one too many stupid commanders. It's not personal, and Jack reminds himself of that every time Sheppard's eyes flicker over him, openly suspicious and not hiding a thing. Sheppard's like this with every single person who could possibly give him an order. It's not personal, it's a learned response, one that kept him alive far too many times when he would have died, and it's not like a few years at the SGC could change the set pattern of over a decade.

He gets that, he does, but he'll admit to himself, that doesn't really change the desire to make him to go work out with Teal'c for a few hours. Maybe set him up for an eight hour kel'noreem right after. Just to rub salt in the wound. A little.

Jack gives himself a second to imagine it, then moves on. "You enjoy the Prometheus?" he asks, buying himself some time.

Sheppard straightens, just a little, and Jack pretends to read the captain's reports. Sheppard, brilliant pilot, helpful, good with the men, smart, blah blah blah, can we shut him in the airlock? His squadron would die for him. His commander would happily space him. The usual.

Jack tries not to smirk.

"I thought I was returning for another tour," Sheppard says, showing interest in Jack's existence for the first time in pretty much their entire relationship. It's good to be a general, Jack thinks contentedly, leaning back as Sheppard straightens.

"I've reassigned you."

There are times that Jack loves being in command--they're few, they're rare, and they are far between, but a lot of them have centered around the sheer joy of giving an order and knowing it has to be obeyed--or seriously fucking with someone's head. When he can do both, he really gets why people like to be generals.

Sheppard, case in point. Cool. "Sir, with all due respect--"

"The F302s will still be there when you get back," Jack says, deciding that outright mutiny in his office and convening a court martial will be a lot less entertaining than getting out of here and making Daniel cook for him again. "It's a temporary assignment while the Prometheus does a milkrun. A few months."

Sheppard gives the impression of someone desperately wishing to be armed, and Jack glances at the file again, reading between the lines. Space him or send him back soon. Which is as close as Sheppard's gotten to a recommendation in years.

"For the SGC?" Sheppard says warily, settling back, unslumped. Not a good sign. Jack prefers the barely concealed hostility to the wary open hostility.

"The Daedalus was chosen for a new mission," Jack says easily, leaning forward. "It's scheduled to find out what happened to the Atlantis expedition."

Sheppard--flickers. Just for a second, hazel eyes darkening, eyes darting to the wall then back again, the slightest tension running along every muscle. It's gone before Jack even draws a breath to ask. "Do you think they're still alive?"

Jack shrugs, watching Sheppard carefully, but he doesn't give a thing away. "We don't know. That's why we're sending a ship."

Sheppard's gaze sharpens. "Something happened." It's not a question. Sheppard may have an attitude problem, but no one's ever said he was stupid.

"After finding the ZPM, we tried to initialize the gate," he admits. "The wormhole didn't engage."

Sheppard sits back. "Then they're--"

"Could be anything. For all we know, the damn thing malfunctioned." Or they're all dead. Obviously. Shaking himself, Jack leans on his elbows, feeling the pull in his back. "In any case, we need gene carriers and of course, the first person I thought of was you." Smiling, Jack leans back, waiting to see what Sheppard does with the information.

"When do we leave, sir?" Sheppard says, back to slumping, like this conversation is just too boring for words. Meditation with Teal'c, Jack thinks wistfully. First thing when they get back.

"Three days. Briefing tomorrow at 0800," Jack says, trying not to smile at Sheppard's surprise. "You have everything we have on the Atlantis expedition, so here's what you'll need." Pushing the folder across the table, Jack waits a malicious few seconds before continuing, until Sheppard opens that file and reads the first line.

When he looks up, the hazel eyes are wide. "You're commanding." It's not a question. The look on Sheppard's face makes pretty much everything worth it.

Jack grins. "Crazy world, huh? I'll see you tomorrow, Major. Have a good night."


The Farthest Edge of the Sea, AKA the Title I Hate

It's--that crossover thing. To write it, I basically have to pretend no one will ever see it but my flist. It helps.


Sam had hated Las Cruces, the ghosts that wandered voiceless and harmless over the streets at night, murdered girls with burned holes for eyes and red lips spread in welcoming smiles over slashed throats, boys who sing in high, clear voices in Spanish-accented Latin dressed blood-drenched robes. It'd been too late by then for the internet, but the libraries had given them the story, and Dean had spent a futile three days trying to find nine crosses that had vanished into history long before he was born.

He eyes Sheppard as he steps onto the dusty street with curious look around, turning slightly like he's making way for something, but either he doesn't have Sam's sensitivity or he's better at controlling himself than any psychic Dean's ever met.

"Nice town," Sheppard says with a raised eyebrow, coming up to lean against the side of the car. Behind him, Ronon and Teyla are just getting out, looking with wide, thoughtful eyes around them.

"It's safe." It is, though Dean's not sure why. Fort Bliss and the Rio Grande that drowned more people than the population of this city once housed to the west and south, a folklore massacre with the single boy that is forever burying his dead with nine white crosses that vanish come morning. Dean dug ten feet down and found nothing but rock. "Just ignore the--stuff." He indicates the empty streets with a flicker of his fingers. "It won't hurt you."

The air tastes faintly of salt and sand, the slow encroachment of the Chihuahuan Desert from the south, reaching thin fingers into the fertile Rio Grande watershed. With a shrug, he leads them toward city hall, a common stopping place for travelers on their way north. "It's pretty dead here," and he can almost *feel* Sheppard's ironic look, "a few ghosts, but they're harmless. There's a kid--"

"Burying his dead," Sheppard says, too softly. Dean stops, glancing at the sun still well above the horizon, then at Sheppard, eyes fixed on ground that's long settled from Dean's gravedigging efforts, a lowering mound coated in thick yellow-green Johnson grass, insects buzzing around Indian paintbrush and golden-brown ferns, heads dipping toward the ground.

"It's somewhere different every time," Dean says as Ronon and Teyla come up behind Sheppard, exchanging a look that he's pretty sure would piss Sheppard off if he could see it. "He doesn't do anything. Just--well, that's pretty much it. Come on."

Sheppard nods, controlling an incipient freak-out by dint of reaching for his gun, and Dean hides his smile, crossing the street and the overgrowth of the front lawn in front of City Hall. When he looks back, Sheppard's staring straight ahead, but the look on his face tells Dean he's listening to something--singing, maybe, the low chant of a Mexican priest, or just the high, frightened sounds of nine people who died screaming, leaving a single boy behind to honor the dead.

ETA: 8/8/2007 Completed! And All the World Beneath


The One Where Colonel Sheppard's Always Been a Girl

This is mostly pentapus's fault. Really.


Joanna pushes back a stray strand of hair and stares up at the ceiling of the jumper with a feeling of impending doom.

"McKay," she says slowly, grinding the word out between clenched teeth. "They won't find your body."

In the copilot's seat, Rodney huffs, looking out the front window of the puddlejumper with an expression not unlike a pout. "I'm just saying--"

"No." And no means no, or at least, not the hell now, not with a mission and a schedule and damned *rocks* in the back hold. Behind her, she can feel Ronon watching them with an expression torn between amusement and irritation, which is so familiar that Joanna would have found it hilariously funny except for the fact that--

"I mean, I'm not asking much here--"

"Oh Jesus," Joanna whispers in horror, staring at the controls. If she thinks hard enough at them, maybe the jumper will be inspired to turn into a time machine and they'll go back twelve and a half hours. "McKay, *shut up*."

"--just that you acknowledge the fact that I am, in fact, your husband." From the corner of her eye, Joanna catches a shadow of smug satisfaction, so habitual and Rodney that she couldn't even get pissed at it anymore, but the uncertainty beneath is what shuts her mouth. Chin raised, Rodney stares into space with the determined expression of a man willing to go any lengths to achieve his goals. The thing is--Rodney *will*, too. Unless she stops this and stops it *now*, they'll be registered and there will be invitations and oh God, he'll call her *parents* and Joanna can hear this conversation already as Rodney seriously asks her father for her hand in marriage and she'll have to shoot herself.

"Alien ritual!" Joanna says desperately. "Accident! How was I supposed to know that sharing a cup was *wedding ceremony*?"

From the back, Teyla coughs softly in a well-covered laugh and Joanna bites her tongue and keeps flying.

ETA: 8/28/2007 Completed! Story of a Girl

This list does not include Teacher's Pet or Strangerverse, since both of those are in a weird place in progress. I have this horrible suspicion that writing mpreg for Christmas--seriously, who does that, mpreg for Christmas?--broke something in my head and now I really want to do a whole string of cliche fics. God help me. I mean, really cliche.

I'm going to go lie down now and breathe into some kind of paper product.
Tags: fandom: stargate:atlantis, fic: wip collective, sga: mensa fic
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